Castles in the Sky
by Stealth Dragon
Summary: Sheppard is captured and to be a slave to the wraith. It becomes more than a matter of survival, but also a matter of keeping his sanity.
1. Prologue

**Castles in the Sky**

By

Stealth Dragon

Rating – T for torture and emotional angst! Very, very Gen.

Disclaimer – I do not own Stargate Atlantis or its characters. I am making no money from this. Sheppard isn't mine but I sure wish he was.

Summary: At last! The "Shep as an abused slave" story I have been promising. Sheppard is captured and to be a slave to the wraith. It becomes more than a matter of survival, but also a matter of keeping his sanity.

A/N: Guess what. This story is beta'd! Thanks to Lauriel01 and Drufan for their help and continuing help in this. I really need it as this fic was quite the pain to write. It is completely written and partially beta'd, but there are plenty of chapters left to be beta'd so for that reason (cringes), not counting the first two chapters, chapters will be posted once a week until I feel it safe to post twice a week. This was a really hard story to write and I want to make sure that everything is working out before I get gung-ho about posting numerous chapters. Apologies for that. I don't know when I'll be able to post more than one but I promise I will eventually.

Also: This fic was my most challenging of all the fanfics I've written to date, and a bit of a step off the beaten path for me. It is not a story to be rushed through, it is the kind that must build. And though there is plenty of good whump there's even more angst. This is not a whump for whumping's sake kind of fic. It's also set in season three, so Carson is still around.

Prologue

It was a matter of someone's survival, which was for damn sure. Sheppard hauled ass slapping branches, twigs, and foliage in general from his face. The mutant-mosquito whine of a dart stayed with him like his shadow and the hum of a culling beam was always inches closer the next time it projected. John chanced a glance up to get the dart's position and fired a barrage of bullets from his P-90. He was pretty sure it had about the same affect as a bunch of bees swarming a grizzly. He would have sold his soul for something bigger, like a rocket launcher.

John pulled his attention back to his surroundings in time to leap over a fallen log. Sweat poured down him in rivers and flew off his face in fat drops. He about gave himself a shiner wiping salty moisture from his stinging eyes. Joining with the cacophony of whining darts and humming culling beams was the drum-beat thumping of his jack hammering heart. His respirations trying to keep up with his circulation made every breath sand-paper scraping his throat raw.

Twigs snapped like whips into John's face until he tasted blood at his lips. His radio crackled.

"_John_!" It was Teyla. "_We have the villagers in the cave_."

It was about damn time. Sheppard dodged, a sharp right out of the path of a culling beam. "Good! Keep them there! I'm going to try and make my way back to you!" Which would be easier said than done. Military training obstacle courses weren't as sadistic as this forest. All the plant-life was doing a sufficient job in beating the snot out of him.

John made another hard right backtracking to the caves. Minerals in the rocks hid life-signs and made it impossible for any wraith to beam in or beam anyone out, or so said the villagers. McKay had confirmed it with a few readings.

John wove; ducking, jumping and all around making himself a hard target. He wasn't a stranger to multi-tasking and ducked a branch while tapping his com. "All units head back to the caves! Secure the caves!" They'd just needed time for the villagers to get to safety. Mission accomplished, so John switched from running as bait to running for his life.

A sphere of electric blue skimmed centimeters from John's chest. He skidded but didn't stop, scrambling into a left turn away from the source. He crashed through shrubs shredding leaves and branches, and stumbled over a hidden pot-hole in the ground. He'd been running for who knew how long and he was hitting the limits of his reserves. If his heart beat any harder, it was going to explode.

Pulses of blue light whined past his ears and knocked the bark off of trees. John whipped his P-90 back and returned the favor, ducking chips of wood flying at his face.

"_Colonel_!" Lorne. "_What's your status_?"

"Really freakin' busy!" Another pulse forced Sheppard to drop to his knee into a roll that landed him back to his feet and back into a run.

"_What's your position_?"

Sheppard feinted left and the next ball of energy passed harmlessly over his shoulder. "What the hell did I just say? Stay where you are, I'll come to you. And quit talking to me!"

"_Sorry, sir_."

John would have sighed if he had the breath.

Legs pumping and arms swinging, Sheppard finally burst from the forest into the short grass of the meadow. The way was open, but his cover was gone, and darts flitted above him like circling vultures, only a hell of a lot faster. He could see the cave entrance several meters away, hear the cracking patter of P-90s and someone shouting for someone else to take position at their four-o'clock.

Then he saw them, his men, his team, scattered in front of the cave-entrance like lions defending a carcass. John smiled through the pain of his exertion and scraped every last dreg of energy he had, shoving it into his muscles, forcing extra speed. He was almost there. A few more meters, a few more heartbeats, breaths, almost there and he promised himself a good collapse.

"_Sheppard look out_!"

John didn't know who had said that and didn't have the chance to find out. Pins and needles exploded at his back spreading fast into his arms and legs. He flew forward, his sight going black as his body dropped to meet the ground.

It never did.

His final sight was the flash of a culling beam, its hum the last sound he heard as he was sucked into black oblivion.

TBC...


	2. Enemy Hands

Ch. 1

Enemy Hands

Sheppard awoke to one of the levels of hell; this one moist arctic air and slime coating his undressed body. Sensation and sound were always first. Cold, slime, being vertical, and echoing howls of the damned. Dante's Inferno this wasn't. More like his ice-box chockfull of the whole wailing and gnashing of teeth thing. It was all one single noise, continuous but undulating in haphazard waves of pitches and volume. John flinched with a sharp inhale tasting something foul on the air, and felt tubing tug at his skin. He didn't hurt. In fact he barely felt a thing except for the tugging at his skin, his heart thumping like a meaty fist on his ribs, cold, and inarguably terrified. He had the belief that if he could just open his eyes, then maybe it wouldn't be so bad.

It was a load of bull. He pulled sticky eyelids apart to a blurred haze of blue, violet, and corpse white. A few blinks to clear away the muck sharpened a massive chamber with pockmarked walls of organic cubbies cocooning other slime-coated bodies. Sheppard could see some of them moving, some of them not, and some of them that needed to be removed, being nothing more than dried husks of brown papery flesh and bones like sticks.

This was neither the inferno nor the ice-box, it was a charnel refrigerator.

John started shaking and it had nothing to do with being cold. "Oh no. No, no, no, no..." Shaking turned into squirming. There was fear, there was terror, and then there was senseless animal panic which he was suffering right now. It was sickening and irrational, pushing simultaneously for fight and flight like two voices screaming in his skull at the same time. Squirming became thrashing, but whatever chemicals were being pumped into his blood smothered the adrenaline trying to saturate his muscles.

Then someone screamed, not the Hollywood shriek of perfection but guttural and broken and desperate. Sheppard's brain whited out and he slammed his back against the wall, whimpering. Either he was heard or the master of this butcher shop was making his rounds. A lithe body in black blocked his view and a pale, bony face baring serrated teeth pushed its way into John's personal space. It studied him, sniffed at him, tilting its head then smiling. It snapped and pointed at him and then blessed darkness accompanied a pulse of white, followed by absolute numbness.

---------------------------

John awoke to pins, needles and, after a moment, rough cloth scraping against his skin. But being clothed wasn't as much of a relief as the silence and complete lack of skin-like enclosures. John forced his eyelids apart, blinked them, and focused on the webbed bars of a wraith cell. His respite of relief was snatched from him by realization.

He should be dead. Cocoon plus grinning wraith usually equaled feeding.

The pins and needles receded enough for the aches to come pouring into his joints and muscles. John rolled onto his back with a groan and then groaned again pushing himself upright to lean his back against the cool wall. He closed his eyes, breathing through his nose to steady his heart and settle his queasy stomach. It was hard with his body and brain overloaded-- senses akimbo and emotions fluctuating. Fear, confusion, anger, confusion, sickness, confusion... he really was supposed to be dead right now.

This meant a certain female someone wanted to talk to him. He shuddered. He was better off in the cocoon. He could handle the influence of queens to an extent but it hurt like hell and each time his strength lasted a little less. It may have depended on the queen, or it may be because the pain lingered and wasn't easy to forget. His head was already starting to throb like a cringe of anticipation. John rubbed his face trying to massage it out. The wraith would drag him to their queen when they realized he was awake, so he had a bit of time.

John waited until the numbness pooled at his finger-tips before pushing himself to his feet on boneless legs. He braced himself against the wall until he could get his knees locked and his head to stop spinning. He'd never felt like this much crap after a stunning. Whatever was siphoned into his blood in the cocoon had made sedatives look like Tylenol. It had reduced his muscles to dead slabs of meat making all motion like he was moving through water. Lifting his hand to run it through his hair left him breathless. After a moment, not even a minute, his legs started to give and he had to sit on the floor or collapse. He pulled his knees up in a huddle, panting.

It was then he finally took notice of his clothes: long-sleeve shirt and tie pants, off-white and textile generic, no shoes. The front of the shirt was buttoned closed the length of his sternum and John forced himself not to think about why. He folded his arms over his chest like someone self-conscious and stared through the webbing at the access panel reachable only by a well-thrown knife. He needed Ronon, or Ford. Possibly Ford since the kid liked being where the wraith enzyme was. Everyone else John would prefer not be subjected to this.

However, a small, seldom-heard, selfish part of him could have used the help. But like he ever listened to that part of him.

John's head eventually became too much to hold up. He lowered his forehead onto his knees with the meaningless excuse of a brief rest that ended up turning into sleep. No change of light and no clock meant time didn't exist. He woke up groggy and stiff to the same surroundings, with the addition of a bowl sitting just within the cell. John rubbed the sleep from his eyes one-handed and stared at the bowl.

Iridescent gray, like mica, filled with something like rice-pudding. John hated rice pudding. But his stomach didn't care and let him know it with a loud groan. He gritted his teeth against complaining joints as he started crawling toward what he hoped were sustenance and not some wraith's idea of a science experiment or chemical administration. McKay would have laughed at that in that condescending, barking way of his, then would have considered it. But John was sure that if the wraith were in the mood to play mad scientist, they would have just stunned him and strapped him to a table. The wraith weren't big on playing mind-games unless it served a bigger purpose.

So it was _possible_ the food was drugged. Sheppard didn't really care. Between being drugged and starving, misery was the constant. Better to get things over with now and learn the hard way later.

John sat with his legs folded Indian style and brought the bowl to his mouth. The first sip he spat back out in shock at the complete lack of any flavor, bad or good ; like drinking congealed, lumpy water. He'd been expecting sewage or something that tasted like lemons and old gym-socks. Bland was actually an improvement to other alien crap-foods he'd had in the past. With a shrug, John tilted the bowl and let the stuff slide down his sticky throat. It didn't really fill him, just silenced the constant gurgling.

John set the bowl on the floor and pushed himself onto more steady legs to wander his prison and wait... and wait, and wait. He sat back against the wall and waited some more. He stiffened his spine at the heavy clomp of marching footfalls. A small squadron of foot soldiers in masks marched by his cell. Their black-coated commander didn't even look his way. It was a brow-furrowing situation that was more unnerving than being in a cocoon or interrogated. At least with those two predicaments he knew what was going on and what was going to happen next, which was probably the point. No interactions, no sense of time – he'd been put in solitary. It was a control tactic, probably to drive him crazy enough to make him easier to break when the time finally came. Either that or the queen was too preoccupied to deal with him right now.

No, it had to be the first. Queens were impatient except when it came to grand-master plots. Atlantis had learned a hell of a lot about the wraith after their so-called "Lantean/wraith" alliance. It had always been assumed they weren't a race big on strategy. Long-term planning was another matter, a lesson hard and well-learned. The wraith were practically immortal so had all the time in the world to wait and work things out to their liking.

John shifted mental topics to how he was going to get out of this. Step one was patience. Without knives hidden on his person he was going to have to do things the hard way.

So he paced, slept, did push-ups to keep in shape, watched squadrons march by and even yelled at a few to see what it accomplished. The masked foot-soldiers didn't give a damn, but their leaders would sometimes hiss at him. Food didn't come when he was hungry, it came when he slept. He figured as much since the bowl only appeared when he woke up. He tested the theory by going for as long as he could without sleep. Hunger made his stomach feel as though it were digesting itself by the time he finally caved to exhaustion and weakness. He woke and, low and behold, there was the bowl of flavorless nutrient mush.

Sheppard had to admire the ingenuity and caution of this hive. He'd gotten used to wraith superiority complexes making gloating opportunities irresistible for them. Not so much gloating, actually, as baring their teeth with the threat of satiating their hunger. They liked to see their meal's reactions, to know if tonight's dinner would taste like fear or defiance. They especially liked defiance. The way they talked, one would think it was an expensive lobster dinner to them.

So John felt it safe to say that something odd was going on. But he wasn't going to ponder that, he was going to ponder means of escape, and his meals were the key.

The next time hunger came; John curled up in the corner and lowered his eyelids to slits. Sleep was persistent, tugging at him, but he managed to keep it back by doing Suduko puzzles in his head. When one pair of boots clomped closer, John's heart jumped, pounding, and his body tensed. A solitary wraith drone approached the cell carrying another iridescent bowl, already reaching out to the panel. Sheppard held his breath.

The webbing parted and John burst like a geyser, scrabbling to his feet straight into a charge right at the wraith. He plowed into the solid-muscle body of the drone, not tackling it but driving it back enough to distract. John grabbed its stunner and jammed it into the broad chest, firing. The wraith convulsed before dropping with a thud to the floor. John took off down the corridor. If all hives were built under the same design, then the dart-bay should be close by.

At the first echo of footsteps, John ducked into the nearest alcove until the footsteps faded. The rest of the way remained clear, which struck him as odd considering his last traipse through a hive, but he refused to dwell on it. He could hear the amplified whine of darts docking and taking off, and smiled. He followed the sound to the bay entrance where he pressed his back against the wall, peering through the entrance to see if the way was clear. The bay was huge, like an abyss; webbed with walkways and open enough to make even the aviator in him nervous. The immediate way was open, no surprises there. Wraith weren't big on having guards protecting every inch of their own hive. The majority of darts were docked save for a few floating around probably for diagnostic purposes.

John slipped around the wall into the bay, setting one bare foot on the cool slick metal of the walkway, then the other.

A heavy body dropped from above, slamming him to the floor with an impact that jarred every bone in his body, sending the stunner skittering beyond his reach. He whipped onto his back while bringing up a fist that slammed into a very flesh-colored face. The head moved with the blow, lessening the impact, then snapped back. John stared wide-eyed into pale green eyes set in the oval face of a very human female.

Shock stalled him. "Whoa, wait...!"

The woman didn't hesitate in slamming her elbow into his chest and then hauling him up by his shirt while he tried to remember how to breathe. As soon as air rasped into his lungs he lifted his foot, kicking out to connect with the woman's belly. The breath rushed from her chest as she staggered back, barely keeping on her feet. John turned lunging toward the weapon only to have the woman's weight collide with his spine, driving him to the floor. He landed hard on his hand, which exploded at the wrist with sharp, cracking pain. John cried out, flipping onto his back and cradling his throbbing wrist to his chest. Cool, slender fingers wrapped around that wrist, yanking it free to squeeze and twist until the pain turned white-hot, extending all the way to his shoulder. John arched, screaming. The woman twisted harder; bent and manipulated the injured limb until every molecule of air was screamed from John's lungs.

The woman flung his arm away in disgust, wiping blood from her nose. "I thought you were a warrior?" She gathered the front of his shirt into her fists and pulled him up, dragging him from the bay.

-----------------------

Sheppard was brought to a painfully familiar chamber – familiar but different. It was more brightly lit, no shadows, no creepy corners where the wraith queen waited to slink out like some horror-movie vixen, and there were plants. Or something like plants. They were scattered around the chamber in ornate metal pots or troughs; spidery looking things gray-blue or blue-green in color, thin vines snaking up the wall blooming flowers with thread-thin petals. Plants like emaciated ferns, dead trees all twisted and gnarled, swollen, spiny flowers that were most likely poisonous, and a glowing algae floating like little islands in shallow basins of water.

The plants weren't quite as disconcerting as the very human-shaped skins tacked across the walls. It was a picture right out of Better Homes and Gardens, the Nightmare on Elm Street meets Aliens edition. Air huffed out of John's lungs in a combination manic laugh and choke. He was shoved to his knees in the middle of chamber, then onto his hands by a boot in his back. He hissed at an electric jolt of pain shuddering up his arm from his wrist that he snatched against his chest.

"Stay," the woman ordered, cool and crisp, making John feel a little like a three-legged dog. He saw her drift off into a more shadowy corner next to one of the basins where she stood at parade rest. Dressed in the black leather long-coat and clothes of a wraith commander, straight ebony hair bordering a pale face, she cut quite the imposing figure.

Considering how easily she'd kicked his ass – yes, definitely imposing.

John tore his gaze from the woman, letting it wander over the plants, throne, and a single divan against the wall until he found the figure he'd been anticipating meeting. The queen stood with her back to him, pruning one of her plants. Sheppard couldn't help a small smile. _Morticia. _The silk-looking black dress practically screamed the name. The only throw-back was the silver-gray hair cascading past the waist. Morticia tossed a glance over her shoulder, narrowing slitted eyes that seemed to glow like yellow phosphorescence. It was a momentary look that soon returned to the plant.

"You could not have been gentler?" the voice was soft, with the usual vibrating cadence as though more than one were speaking.

"He put up a fight," the woman said like it was no surprise. "He faired rather well, all things considered."

Morticia pulled herself away from the plant with stiff agitation, as though she had been inconvenienced. "His wrist will have to be tended." She slowed when she approached him, studying him, and there was nothing wraith about the way she looked at him. Granted the eyes still reminded Sheppard of a shark, but a shark with higher brain functions. What was lacking was the hunger - the anticipation of a good meal after the toying - with was said and done. The queens' regard was, at first, condescending and then considering as though John were another plant she was thinking about buying. Perhaps it was the defiance John was shooting her. It was the same look he gave all the wraith queens and she was enjoying it. All the other queens had seemed to get a big kick out of it.

"He is... as they say?" she asked.

The woman shrugged. "I didn't think much of him. I thought the fight would have taken longer."

Morticia circled him. "I had his meals tainted with the conva serum, enough to keep him just under his usual strength."

"That might explain it, then."

The queen made two circuits before stopping to stand in front of John, stretching her clawed hand toward him. "Rise to your knees."

The voice echoed in his skull accompanied by tiny drills and jack-hammers. John winced, resisted until the jackhammers increased in size and then shot upright still on his knees. Morticia smiled a mouth full of serrated horror. "Glad to see the rumors are true. You are a stubborn one."

"Pain in the ass, too," John gritted. "Just ask your buddy over there."

Morticia dropped her arm and the hold broke. John sagged, exhaling a gasp of relief. Then he stopped breathing all together when the queen crouched in front of him. The motion maintained the usual fluidity of a wraith female but it was so damn... _human_, like the movements of a retired dancer rather than a seductive snake. It made him more cautious and a little extra afraid. Life was unpredictable enough and this queen's alteration from the norm made it down right surreal. The wraith seemed more intent on happily proving him wrong every step of the way than feeding on him.

Morticia took the oddity a step further by running a clawed finger along the hair on the side of his head rather than going for his jaw or cheek. She was petting him. Not caressing to get a rise of fear and disgust, but stroking him as though he really were a soft little puppy.

"Colonel John Sheppard," her voice vibrated.

Sheppard swallowed and replied hoarsely, "Lt. Colonel, actually."

She smiled. "Trivialities. Titles hold no meaning to us. Yours is simply a name we say like a curse. The one behind the name is who matters. This may be our first acquaintance, but you are no stranger to me, John."

Oddity three, or was it four? There had yet to be a wraith that referred to him by his first name.

The clawed finger lengthened its stroke from his hair to around his ear and down his neck, lifting to start again. He'd tensed when it was just the hair, but his gut recoiled when cold, slick flesh contacted the warmer skin of his neck.

John forced a strained smile. "Nice to hear my reputation precedes me."

"You have no idea." Morticia ditched the hair all together and focused on stroking the back of his neck all the way to the top of his spine. "You and your people, the Lanteans, are a bane to us but it is you that incites greater agitation. I have seen the minds of the queens you had killed, seen their dreams before you killed them, felt their hatred for you and your people. But it's you who woke us; it is you that haunt us all. It is yours that is always the last face seen at so many queens' deaths."

The queen stopped stroking and gripped lightly the back of his neck, bringing his face in close to hers. "They don't like you, little one."

John managed a small smirk. "Gee, ya think?"

Morticia smirked back. "I know." She patted the back of his head. "I find their longing to devour you amusing. They boast about who will be the first."

Sheppard's heart pounded impossibly harder, which he spited by smiling wider. "Never knew I was that popular. So when are you doing the honors? Now or at a moment when you'll be able to shove it in the other queen's faces that you did what they couldn't? I hear you guys can get a little possessive. Bet you'll be the life of the party dragging me in attached to your hand."

Morticia finally got around to sliding her finger down his cheek. "Little one. Do you honestly think it that simple, that quick?" Her hand lowered to his chest, yanking the collar. The snaps gave and the halves parted exposing John's vulnerable sternum. His heart beat so hard he could barely breathe. He was resigned and terrified at the same time, hoping it wouldn't have come to this yet knowing it would have one day. His luck had always been fickle that way.

It still didn't smother his desire to live. His brain scrambled through too many plans too fast to grasp a single way out of this. The loudest thought of all was that it was better then being interrogated until he broke. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, opening the way for the queen to end it. The cold hand slid onto the bare skin of his chest and pressed.

Pain pulsed sharp, hot, and indescribably agonizing to steal the breath from his lungs. It arched his spine and made him grit his teeth so hard they felt ready to break. The hand wasn't on his chest, it was digging into his body, spreading thin tendrils like needles skewering his soul and ripping it out of his body. It burned him and froze him, devoured him only to spit him back out and do it again. He didn't scream, but he did whimper.

Morticia ripped her hand from John's chest and he dropped onto his side, shaking, trying to recall how to breathe. The pain lingered, a pulsating ache dancing to the rhythm of his quaking heart. The queen stepped back and twitched her head to one side. She just stood there watching him shake until a drone moved into his line of sight, kneeling in front of him and placing its large hand on his chest. Hot pain poured like molten lead into his body. John sucked in a breath, arching, and screamed.

"I am not hasty, little one," the queen said above the reverberating shriek. "I find no pleasure or purpose in immediate deaths."

The agony dissipated back into an ache and the heavy hand pulled away from John's chest. He was once again breathless, shaking, and now soaked in sweat. The drone rose and moved away, making room for his queen to kneel and bend enough to meet John's gaze. She brushed her fingers through his drenched hair. "I want you alive, little one. I want you mine. _All. Mine."_

The same terror that had choked him in the cocoon tightened around his throat now. He couldn't help shrinking back.

TBC...

A/N: So far so good? Nothing but bad times ahead for our Johnny-boy.


	3. Purgatory is so Nice this Time of Year

A/N: Holy feedback, batman! You like it, you all really, really like! And that had been only the beginning for our poor John. Thanks be to all who reviewed. Now, more Sheppard misery.

Also, a thousand apologies. Someone asked if this was before or after Common Ground and it made me realize I forgot to put spoiler warnings. Spoilers for Common Ground mainly (takes place after, of course). How long have I been at this now? And I'm still rusty when it comes to putting spoiler warnings.

Ch. 2

Purgatory is so Nice this Time of Year

John woke back in his cell with the perk of being surrounded in a nest of blankets burnt umber to brown-green in color. It was comfortable enough bedding to entice him to return to sleep. His eyes started to close of their own volition when recollection knocked him hard up-side the skull.

Escape, beating, wraith queen, arboretum from hell, feeding, anti-feeding... it flashed through his head like an out-of-control slide-show. The only thing he couldn't remember was passing out.

Sheppard snapped his head up, his hand going straight to his still-exposed chest. He looked down to see the blood-spattered open collar and perfectly healthy skin covering his breastbone.

Perfectly healthy, _young _skin, wrinkle free. He made doubly-sure by feeling out the smooth but stubbled flesh of his face, then sighed, sagging in indescribable relief. Old age or fighting to the bitter end, that's how he wanted to go. Premature aging felt like cheating, or a bad joke. He wanted to _reach_ a ripe old age if possible and take advantage of every year in between, not have it handed to him overnight.

Relief switched places with nervous confusion. Since when was restoring youth considered a torture tactic? And why hadn't he been interrogated? And... what the freakin' _hell_ was going on?

_I want you mine. All. Mine._

John shivered and looked down at his little nest of blankets, then at the bowl of food just inside the cell. He shivered again, harder, gut knotting in disgust. It was so blatantly obvious he couldn't not think about it even though he tried. He'd assumed... crap, he had actually _hoped_ she had meant wanting him as a snack. But a pet? He grimaced. Like hell he was going to be her lap-dog and like hell he was going to drop to his knees and worship her – voluntarily.

Sheppard snapped the collar of his shirt closed. He gave the bowl of lumpy sustenance a baleful look as though it embodied everything about this sick situation. Morticia had said some kind of drug had been added to the food, and chances were good that the trend would continue in order to keep him _docile._ So he had two choices, starve or get doped-up. He went for starving, just for now, to keep a clear head for as long as possible and get the 'lay of the land' so to speak. He needed to find a way to escape, and if it meant having food eventually shoved down his throat against his will, then so be it.

John had never been a good little doggy. He wasn't about to start now.

He scooted backward until he was against the wall and stared through the webbing into the blue-green corridor. Time ticked by because even without a watch or clock it still existed. He relived himself at a grate in the corner of the cell on the other-side of a misshapen pillar, then sat some more. He was thirsty, so thus realized that the porridge had simultaneously satisfied his hunger and thirst, and grimaced with a curse. He'd gone for days without food, but water was a little more of a necessity. Dehydration would kick his ass long before hunger.

"Damn it!" He tossed the blanket aside and slid on his knees over the slick floor to the bowl. His aggressive snatching sent some of the contents slopping over the side. He gulped the crap, mentally cussing out each swallow down to the last drops, then threw the dish against the alien bars. The bowl clanged off the webbing and onto the floor where it rolled until it settled.

"That didn't take long."

John looked up to see the leather-clad woman standing before the cell with her arms folded. Her expression was one of mild annoyance, like an older sister being told she couldn't go out because she had to watch her baby brother.

Sheppard gave her a crooked smile. "Lose the bet on how long it would take before I gave in?"

"More like you've yet to live up to all those tales of terror I've been hearing about you. The way the other wraith talk, I expected someone..." She stepped closer looking directly down at him, purely condescending, and said, "…the opposite of you."

John used the webbing to pull himself to his feet and better meet the woman's gaze, keeping his smile plastered in place. "That's because you haven't had the chance to get to know me."

"And yet why do I get the feeling it wouldn't make much of a difference?"

"Because you seem to like first impressions. We don't even know each other's name."

The woman was so unreadable she made Ronon seem down-right emotional. "You're Lt. Colonel John Sheppard."

John slid his arms through the webbing for a casual lean. "In the flesh. And you?"

She blinked slowly, ponderously, obviously debating whether to tell him or remain anonymous, as though knowing ones name was a disadvantage. And maybe it was, to her. Some worlds and natives were anal that way, thinking a person's name was a way to control them or something like that.

"You can call me Ki'vana," she finally replied. Maybe it was her name, maybe it wasn't, but it was something to call her and John wasn't in the mood to come up with anything himself.

Ki'vana stepped back within reach of the panel and pressed it, parting the webbing. It wasn't even all the way open when she pulled a stunner from a holster at her thigh, pointing it at him. "Step out."

John eyed her, looking for a weakness, a moment to strike, but dismissed it when he complied and felt the muscles of his legs quiver. He wasn't going to waste his energy just to get stunned for the effort. Ki'vana stepped forward close enough to press the business end of the stunner against his stomach. "I have been ordered to incapacitate you if you try anything I don't approve of." Her free hand reached within her leather coat, removing a wicked looking knife with a curved, serrated blade. She flipped it impressively before pressing the tip against his ribs, applying pressure until it penetrated cloth and flesh to grate against the bone. Sheppard tensed but refused to give her the satisfaction of even a wince.

She pressed harder. "But I am permitted to do more should the need arise." She gave the knife another deft twirl before tucking it back within her coat. The stunner she slipped back into the thigh holster. "Be good and you shall suffer neither."

John smirked. "Just so you know, that's yet to be a good motivator for me."

"We shall see." She grabbed his arm in an iron grip that pinched, jerking him around then yanking him into motion. "Now, let's get you acquainted with your new home and duties. And you'd best pay attention. I hate having to repeat myself."

She maintained the painfully tight hold on his arm as she led him down the fleshy looking corridors of the ship, past masked wraith drones and unmasked wraith commanders who bared their teeth at him. There were also humans dressed in soft tunics and trousers or skirts in beige or soft pale violets, with one or two dressed in black leathers and a long-coat. They regarded John with smirks, giggling or whispering behind their hands. It was like freakin' high school, and John was the unfortunate new kid with a 'kick-me' sign on his back. The only humans that didn't regard him at all were the ones dressed in the same textile pants and shirts with the fronts that would open at the slightest tug. These humans walked hunched in a perpetual cringe, keeping their eyes on the floor – eyes that were contrite and terrified. And they were thin, every single one of these subservients, making John feel like the picture of health even with some alien drug buzzing through his veins.

"You are the lesser beast here, Sheppard," Ki'vana said. They passed rooms where wraith commanders sat at transparent tables that weren't quite glass, and another room where wraith surrounded a holographic projection of the galaxy, pointing and muttering in their guttural language. "You continue to exist in order to serve. If one of the mortal honored makes a demand of you, then you fulfill that demand. If one of the immortal lords is famished and wishes to partake of your life-force, then you let them." Ki'vana angled her head toward him without moving her eyes to look at him. "Your continuing existence would normally be your reward, but the queen wishes you to live whether you cooperate or not."

"Sounds like I already have it easy here," John said.

Ki'vana's shoulders jerked in a breathy, mocking laugh. "You don't strike me as a stupid man, Colonel. Do you honestly believe that?"

Cold shot down John's rigid spine but he managed to suppress a shiver. "Not for a second."

The wraith-worshiper looked away. "Smart man."

Hive-ships had a lot more rooms and chambers than John realized, or it could have just been this one. Ki'vana brought him to the kitchens. Not really a kitchen in the sense of it having ovens and sinks. There were large containers where foods were kept freeze-dried for permanent freshness, counters where meat and vegetables were cut, and openings in the walls where food arranged on metal trays went in raw to come out seconds later cooked and steaming. This included large vats of nutrient gruel. Every single "chef" was another cowering subservient, all pale and sickly with constant fear and probably the constant strain of being fed on and restored.

"You may be asked to help prepare the meals for my people," Ki'vana said, "should the staff become depleted."

Next on the tour was the hibernation chamber located above the queen's chamber. It was massive, like the honeycomb of a bee-hive spread across the floor, the dividing walls walkways for easier access to each of the sleeping pods. Each pod or cocoon or whatever the hell one would call them was filled with a clear, syrupy liquid and organic tubing. It was disconcerting seeing an empty one. An occupied one nearly caused Sheppard's lunch to make a return appearance. Apparently, wraith had to sleep in the nude, and they were just as ugly if not uglier in the buff than they were when dressed.

The only humans in this part of the ship were the wraith-worshipers, either working at the consoles or doing something to the viscous sleeping-bags.

"You are not permitted in this chamber unless escorting one of the Chosen," said Ki'vana. "And even then you are to touch nothing."

They passed what John guessed to be labs with equipment that would go well with a horror flick about alien abductions. Cold tables, serrated blades, and machines with claws and scalpels attached to ambidextrous arms. Bubbling liquids, containers of putrid-colored fluids, and holographic projections of scrolling readings and measurements. They slowed when passing a lab with an experiment in progress – the dissection of a human male as though he were a frog. Two wraith were elbow deep in the man's body.

John gulped fast in a losing fight against the bile burning its way up his throat. The guy was alive. The oxygen mask and heart-monitor said so. He was also awake, eyes wide-open and staring catatonic at the ceiling while two man-eaters fiddled with his organs. Sheppard balled his fists to stop the shaking that he could feel start to spread to the rest of his body. He was horrified, pissed, wanting to do something but half afraid that if he did he'd be the one to end up on that table.

"The wraith are creative when it comes to punishment," Ki'vana stated matter-of-factly, as though she found it all slightly amusing. She tugged on John's arm. "Come."

Their final destination John knew all too well.

Food storage – the cocoons. And this one was looking pretty well stocked. Ki'vana took him down the rows of cubbies where some people slept, others writhed; some moaned, some pleaded, some whimpered, screamed, wailed, and others did nothing as they were nothing more than sucked-dried corpses. The noise filled John's skull until he thought it would burst, and the smell – sweat, decay, blood – compacted in his lungs. If he breathed through his nose, he smelled it. If he breathed through his mouth, he tasted it, cold and metallic and bitter. The combination of senses pushed at him, scraping up memories like overly-vivid nightmares full of too much sensation. The shaking finally crawled from his hands, up his arms and down into the rest of him. He tried to fight it, he really did.

Ki'vana stopped several feet from a wraith commander leaning into an alcove, and the occupant trying to shrink back.

"No," the man whimpered. "No, no, no, no, no, please, no..."

The wraith hissed, and then sniffed. It seemed disgusted by its choice of meal, while also resigned to it. Pulling its arm back, it slammed its hand forward into its meal's chest. The man screamed long, loud and broken. Smooth, pale skin shrank and withered tightening against the bones. John's heart pounded and his blood ran hot and cold in horror and fury. Breaking from his trance, charging forward, was instinct. Someone was being hurt, hurt by a monster, a monster he was supposed to be fighting, a monster that had killed so many he had known. He didn't know why or what he hoped to accomplish, but he shoved the wraith back anyways to stand between it and its victim.

The wraith hissed, lurched forward, and back-handed John across the face knocking him sideways. John hit the floor hard with a thud shoving the wind from his lungs and sending motes of black and white pulsing over his vision. He shook his head clear enough to lift it and watch helplessly as the wraith finished what it had started. The scene was blocked by Ki'vana crouching in front of him, bending enough so he could see her face and small smile curling her lips.

"That was rather pointless," she said. She grabbed his arm and pulled him none too gently back to his feet. She then slammed him into the wall between two alcoves. "_Never_," she said, "get between an immortal and his meal. That includes if you happen to be the meal." She kept a hold of his arm to drag him from the storage chamber. "Let's get you acquainted with your duties for the queen."

----------------------------

_You'll get out of this, Sheppard; you'll get out of this. Just keep a cool head and you'll get out, maybe even manage to take a few people with you... which'll probably be impossible._

Real hell was being in enemy territory, enemy hands, seeing people suffer and not being able to do a damn thing about it. He was pretty sure that if he wanted to save himself he would have to refrain trying to save everyone else. That was reality; that was logic. Of course, he had never been one to abide by the rules. If there was a way to at least save as many as he could, then he would do it.

That was if he could even get out of this place. But he had to think he could or else he would lose it. Reality said all odds were against him. Reality, however, could kiss his ass. The odds had yet to mean squat.

John's duties to the queen were whatever she wanted him to do, and so far, after three days (or what he assumed had been three days) all she had him do was water her plants. The rest of the time he served the worshipers – preparing meals, cleaning their clothes like some washer-woman, being used as target practice (which he never made easy, claiming to be 'fidgety'.) He played along most of the time to avoid trouble so that he could focus on figuring a way out of this place. The worshipers didn't make it simple. They all knew who he was, and that made him a target.

It was dinner time, or evening meal, or whatever the crap these people called it. Since he didn't have a clue about how to use the ovens, he'd been made to chop vegetables and was now lugging around a pitcher of brown, strong-smelling drink that he was sure tasted like vomit. But the worshipers loved it. He moved around the long, storm-gray table with its ornate high-backed chairs, pouring the putrid stuff into goblets that looked more human-made than wraith, plausibly scavenged from culled worlds. John had determined that worshipers were nothing more than suck-ups, recruiters, and grave-robbers picking off the remnants of those taken.

Images of worshipers picking their way through the remains of civilizations, stepping over corpses like they were fallen logs, disgusted him enough to spit into the next pitcher. Hearing them talk of cullings and all the goodies acquired had him spitting in the pitcher after.

The third pitcher he made sure to snort up a little more phlegm. He spit it into the liquid then headed through the opaque webbed doors into the dining hall. Several eyes glanced his way, some amused, others annoyed, most indifferent. Ki'vana sat at the head of the table with others clad in leathers on her left and right, eight in all, the rest dressed in the softer clothes.

"I do not understand the fascination with him," said a man with dark, slicked-back hair. He was tall, sharp-featured, wearing a pale lavender cloak. "He was captured so easily. How could such a man be a danger?"

"The stories were exaggerated," said a blond woman. "They always are."

"The wraith do not exaggerate," another man sneered.

"But our kind do," the cloaked man replied. He eyed John with disdain. John glared back. "See how he looks at me?" the man whined. "The man is deranged. He is among gods and thinks nothing of it. He is vain and he is stupid. The queen should devour him and be done with it. He will only cause unnecessary aggravation."

"The queen knows what she is about," said the blond. "She keeps him alive for a reason."

"Does not mean I have to like it," the man muttered.

A young woman with doe-brown hair and eyes leaned forward resting her chin in her hands, appraising Sheppard with too much interest of the leering kind. When John poured her drink, he flinched at the hand pressing against his thigh making its way up his hip. He moved away quickly before it had a chance to roam anywhere else. He came around to the cloaked-man, pouring his drink.

The man took one sip and abruptly turned to spit it out onto John's shirt front. He snarled in disgust, "What is this? You fool, you made it wrong!" He grabbed Sheppard by the shirt and yanked him to the floor, the pitcher crashing into shards and frothy brown liquor beside him. The remainder of the man's drink was poured onto John's back. "I am not drinking this."

The rest of the dinner party burst into chuckles and guffaws.

John clenched his jaw tight until his teeth hurt, curling and uncurling his fingers in the cold liquid. It was horribly tempting to grab one of the clay shards and press the sharp edge to the man's neck, just a little scare to get the creep to wet his pants. The temptation was made even harder to fight when a skinny servant girl no older then twelve was shoved to the floor with a barked order to help clean up the mess. She wiped as Sheppard picked up the shards so she wouldn't cut herself.

"Self-righteous sons of bitches," John muttered.

The chatter went abruptly quiet.

"What did you say, fool?"

John froze, working his jaw as he pondered if clarification would be worth what ever this guy might have in mind as punishment.

"Well?" A shove to his flank by the man's foot decided it.

John turned his head and looked up, locking the creep's gaze. "I called you a son of a bitch. And if you guessed that to be an insult, then you'd be right." He went back to picking up the shards. The silence stretched thin and taut, making John smile."

Then John saw a flash of silver out of the corner of his eye and turned his head to see creep lifting his dinner knife to bring it down on John's back. Sheppard readied himself to stop the arm just as it was descending.

"Loraph!'

The knife halted hovering in mid-thrust. Loraph's head snapped around to stare wide-eyed at Ki'vana. Ki'vana rose, smooth as silk and graceful as a serpent. She came up to Loraph, taking the knife from his hand and setting it gently on the table, then followed it up with a gentle caress to Loraph's cheek. Her motions were as smooth as any wraith queen but without the pain.

"That is not the way," she soothed. "The queen would only be angry." She pulled her dagger from its hidden sheath with her other hand, prowled up behind the servant girl, and in a single fluid move crouched and slid the blade across the girl's throat. Blood spurted thick from the severed artery, drowning the girl who sputtered and gasped until crumpling to the floor, twitching. Blood pooled around her in a perfect crimson puddle.

John stopped breathing and was sure his heart had stopped beating. Ki'vana rose with the same fluidity, wiping her knife clean using the nearest cloth napkin before re-sheathing it. "The ones who seem not to care for consequences seem more apt to listen when it's someone else being made to feel pain."

The rest of the worshipers nodded and mumbled in sage agreement at Ki'vana's display of wisdom. John didn't hear what they were saying. His world had narrowed down to the girl, the little girl, a child who he hadn't even known but didn't need to know since she'd just been a kid – probably twelve, maybe thirteen - and the growing puddle reflecting everything in red.

She was dead, and it was his fault. He pulled his gaze away to look at Ki'vana, wanting to ask her why, wanting to call her a bitch, hating her and hating himself all at the same time.

_This is how she's gonna play it. _

This was bad, really bad. She knew his weakness and had exploited it for everyone to see. There were no sufficient enough words to describe just how bad this was.

A drone was called in to drag Sheppard back to his cell to "think about what he had done" according to the worshipers. He was tossed inside where a bowl of gruel was waiting. He ignored it, his appetite dead. His stomach tried to knot itself over and over each time the image of the girl's sliced throat flickered through is brain.

That girl was dead because of him.

_You just had to go and be a smart ass, didn't you, John? _

John balled his fist tight until it shook, and then slammed it into the webbing with a grunt, splitting the skin on his knuckles. He did it again, and again, until blood poured freely. After which he crawled over to his nest of blankets to sit with his back against the wall, letting the blood ooze from the cuts and drip from his fingertips onto the floor.

He was going to have to be careful, which meant he was going to have to be a lot more cooperative. Servitude, verbal abuse and physical abuse he could take. It would be hard on the pride, but it wouldn't be the first time pride would take a back seat for the sake of bigger stakes. He would not, could not, to let innocent people die just because he felt like being a jerk.

John had thought he'd been glad knowing the rest of his team wasn't here to put up with the same. That relief was nothing compared to now. That could have been Rodney getting his neck cut, or Teyla or Ronon. Sheppard closed his eyes forcing his thoughts to turn another way. The mere possibility scared the hell out of him.

Sheppard opened his eyes at the soft swish of the webbing opening to see the brown-haired girl standing within the entrance. She had that same smile: the one both anticipatory and smug. It was also suggestive, playful, and wicked. John tensed, his heart pounding. The girl sauntered toward him, reaching back behind her lavender tunic that shimmered like satin, unclasping or untying something that loosened the front for her to start pulling it down.

John turned away before he saw anything. _Oh no, oh hell no!_ He shut his eyes, squeezing them tight. The moment he felt a tug unsnap the front of his shirt he scrabbled blindly away until his back hit a pillar. He heard high-pitch laughter like cackling but refused to open his eyes.

"Oh, wow. The others are right. You are pathetic." Something cold, wet, and lumpy slopped onto his head, dripping down his face and neck and onto his chest. He snapped opened his eyes with a gasp of shock. The girl was standing over him, her tunic back in place, holding the bowl with his dinner upside down as globs of it dripped to smack him on the head. The girl smirked.

"You're fortunate I still find interest in my current lover," she said. "But you had best hope I do not tire of him. Although... they do tend to wear out fast." She tossed the bowl aside and sauntered out, slapping the panel to close the cell.

John glared at the girl's retreating back. Yeah, he was pissed, but he was painfully aware that he was shivering from more than just the cold porridge soaking into his clothes.

This was really, really, _really _bad.

TBC...

A/N: Woobie John needs hugs. Or, more specifically, an escape plan.


	4. Rocks and Hard Places

A/N: Thank you everyone for your reviews, and thanks to my betas for their continuing help. Now, let's see what else Morticia has in store for poor John.

Ch. 3

Rocks and Hard Places

John decided solitude wasn't so bad considering the options. He wasn't going to be anyone's sex toy, and his "chores" made him long for the days of his father badgering him to mow the lawn. After the girl's advances, John refrained from sleeping, just to play it safe. McKay would have called it paranoia, but John called it smart when some time during when he should have been asleep he saw the girl pass twice keeping to the shadows, practically skipping, adding a little hum like some naughty school-girl heading to class. John had pointedly ignored her, so she had hummed louder until even out of sight he could still hear her.

She must have tired when she finally stopped, but John wasn't taking chances, so he was awake when his gruel came. He couldn't tell if his limbs felt like Jell-O because of whatever was in the sludge or continually sitting up in a constant state of readiness, fighting sleep. Ki'vana came for him after breakfast to introduce him to his newest task. She led him deep into the heart of the ship, what he considered to be like the basement, maybe dungeon, where power barely squeezed through after hitting all other systems. Everything was cast in blue-violet twilight, which wasn't a bad thing.

Definitely not.

The "dungeon" was a meat processing plant relying on good old-fashioned man-power to skin alien beasts and chop them into individual chunks. Animal carcasses were pulled from vats spilling white vapors as though dry-ice were being utilized to keep carcasses fresh - something like a bald, black wart-hog with a rhino horn on its snout. It was about the size of a pony and took four men fat with muscle to pull the thing out onto the floor. A hook attached to a chain was skewered through the thick jaws and the carcass was hauled up for easier access. Knives jagged-edged as wraith teeth slit the flesh and sawed crunching through bone that snapped like a gunshot. The skin was gathered and placed in another vat of what looked like boiling oil.

John twisted his face in disgust more at the smell than the blood. For the most part, he was just glad it was animals being butchered. A part of him, for less than a second, had expected the bodies hanging from the hooks to be deformed humans. The situation was twisted enough, but he still chalked it up to one too many horror movies.

Wraith, after all, liked their meals alive and kicking.

Ki'vana grabbed John's wrist to slap the hilt of a stained knife into his palm. "You are to remove the skin and place it within the Orkav liquid. The skin must remain in a single piece. If it is not, don't think we won't know it was you who made the mistake." She gave him a small shove toward the nearest carcass not being skinned, then left.

John stood there, looked from the knife to the beast, then to his neighbor. The skin was slit down the belly from jaw to groin, then along the limbs. The butcher then sliced between flesh and muscle, tugging the skin to pull it away from the body. John's stomach clenched. He looked at his creature and his mind shot back to days spent in the cold, wet woods behind a deer blind with his grandpa, waiting for some buck to wander by. It had been a great lesson in patience, made him the marksmen he was today, and instilled in him a waste not/want not attitude since his grandfather had always pushed for "only kill what you're going to eat... humans not included." But when it came to the gutting and skinning process, he had only watched, never participated. It was mostly because of the smell, but also because of the feel of still-warm organs soft as clay slipping out of his grasp. His grandpa had never held it against him, yet that hadn't stopped John from feeling inadequate, like he'd chickened out or something.

"I'd rather you have a few qualms about spilling blood than no qualms at all," his grandfather had said. For a man who loved guns and shooting things, he was a peaceful soul the majority of the time.

It had actually made him feel better between the time the butchering began and when his cousins started making fun of him. Not that they had ever joined in on the gutting – friggin' hypocrites.

John pressed the knife into the soft space within the jaw and slid the knife down the skin like it was liquid. Things didn't get messy until he started sawing the skin off the muscle. Blood slid thick as hot tar down the knife onto his hand, then down his hand to soak into the sleeve. Blood spattered his clothes, flecked into his face, and soaked him up to his elbows. He was forced to pull away and go retch against the wall when the smell finally got to him. A few deep breaths of less putrid air and he went back to work sloughing skin off bone. Once it was free, he bundled it up and dumped it into the nearest oil vat.

Next came the meat, complete with massive organs, which incited a lot more retching that diminished into dry heaves. The organs were dumped in another vat and the skinless, organ-less body left hanging for those who handle the meat-part to deal with. John moved on to a second carcass, then a third, and was about to move on to a fourth when Ki'vana arrived.

"The queen wishes to see you."

John looked down at his gore-soaked clothes. "Got a place where I can wash up?"

"She wishes to see you," she grabbed the knife from his hand and impaled it into an unskinned carcass, "_now_."

Ki'vana led the way to the queen's chamber. John followed leaving a trail of bloody-footprints. All the butchering had left him soaked, freezing, and possibly dehydrated with all the sweat and vomit he'd excreted. He also doubted he was going to be able to keep any food down for some time. They entered the chamber, Ki'vana falling back to push John toward the center where he stood, shivering. But like hell he was going to let the queen think it was out of fear. He looked up as she approached, locking his hazel eyes with her shark-like yellow ones.

Morticia circled him. John turned his head to follow.

"I see he has been made acquainted with his various duties," she said.

"As per your request, my queen," Ki'vana replied.

"Has he been any trouble?"

Ki'vana lifted her chin. "At first. You were right, he learns fast with the right motivation."

Morticia's circle became spiraling, bringing her in closer to Sheppard. "You may leave us, now."

Ki'vana bowed and strode from the chamber, black-coat billowing.

When Morticia came around to John's front, she stopped with only two feet of space between them. She reached out touching the skin of his throat, pulling her finger away to regard the blood smeared on the tip. In the wan, pale-blue light, the blood reflected black as crude oil. "You do learn quickly."

John worked his jaw, feeling the tense muscles twitch. "Not really much of a choice."

Morticia wiped the blood from her finger onto the only clean spot at the shoulder of Sheppard's shirt. "Do not take it personally. Think of yourself as a wild animal: Untamed, untainted by thousands of years of our presence. In order to properly tame you, we must first find suitable means of keeping you in line. In time, you will come to be more... willing, rather than simply cooperative."

John huffed a dry, bitter laugh, curling his lip in a sneer. "Like hell."

Morticia clutched his collar, pulling his face in too close for comfort. "We shall see." She released his head with a jerk, stepping back then turning, wandering over to the nearest plant to start pruning it. "Your current tasks you will only perform when I do not require your presence. Ki'vana will let you know what your duties are for the day. You will be given more duties that will alternate. You are to obey all orders given to you, whether by my commanders or those who see us as gods. Disobey their orders and it will be up to them what your punishment shall be."

Thinking back to the brown-haired girl, John shuddered. "Sure you want to do that? One guy was ready to gut me."

"So long as you are not impaled in a vital place. The storage chambers can sustain you until your body is healed. Also, if one in my hive is in need of sustenance, you will be fed upon. Rest assured not completely. Then you will be restored. There is nothing you are exempt from save death."

John clenched his fist to stop the shaking. He was scared, damn scared, and knew she knew it. If she didn't hear his heart pounding then she smelled the fear on his sweat, or felt it radiate off him like a sun's corona. He wouldn't have fooled anyone with attempted macho-ism so didn't even try. However, he had just enough anger to wear a scowl instead of a look of sheer panic. Yeah, hell was big in his future. But, hey, at least he would still be alive.

He wasn't simply scrounging for the positive. As long as he was alive, then there was a way out, he just had to find it.

"Sure about that?" Sheppard said. "Think I couldn't find a way to kill myself?"

Morticia made a noise like a throaty bark of laughter. She turned her head enough for him to see her cock-eyed look of incredulity. It kept throwing him how human she seemed. "You would not go that far."

"Try me. Quick cut to the neck with a butcher knife, pissing off one of your worshipers just enough to get them to stick me in the heart, starve myself..."

"You would not, Colonel Sheppard, because that would be giving up. And you do not wish to give up, you wish to escape." She turned from her plant, sauntering toward him. "Yet there will come a time when death will seem a sweet and wondrous prospect, and you will try to bring it upon yourself. But we will be ready. There will always be a storage pocket waiting for you, a drone to restore you. Then, when you are healed enough, you will be punished for it. Punished in ways that will make you long for death like longing for water to slake your thirst. But then the punishment will stop, and you will dare not think of ending your life again. Now _kneel._"

John fought the pain as he always did, pushing against it as it pushed back burrowing heated needles into his brain until he finally sank to his knees.

Morticia yanked his collar open. "Please do not think that I have not considered everything." She slammed her hand into his chest and pain ripped through him like a thousand sharpened knives. It was enough to make him whimper, head and back arched, ribs spread to capacity. Agony squeezed his lungs until he had no air to scream.

The queen ripped her hand away letting Sheppard crumple to the floor. "One day," she breathed, "you will bow to me willingly."

A drone entered and restored what was taken, more knives shredding, more pain wrapping a vice around his chest until the restoration was complete. John sucked in a lungful and exhaled it, shaking hard and dripping a cocktail of sweat and congealing animal blood. Morticia gave a dismissive flap of her hand. "Take him back to the cell, have him cleaned up, feed him. I do not want to see him again until he is clean."

A thick-fingered hand grabbed his arm and dragged him from the chamber.

--------------------------

John didn't think he could sink any lower than being bathed by a _wraith_. He was dragged to a room with a large grate, stripped naked, and pummeled with jets of water that four seconds in started abrading his skin. It was a brief shower just to get him wet enough for a lowly wraith drone to try and scrub the skin off his bones with what felt like a scouring pad. He was sure most of the blood staining the water was his own.

After his "bath" he was dragged still in his wet birthday suit to his cell and dumped on the cool floor. The bath had left every muscle aching and his skin sore. The only movement he made was to uncurl from his fetal huddle and crawl to the blankets, wrapping up in the gray one. The events of the day and lack of sleep joined forces to urge him into lying down, his intent the ever pointless "just resting my eyes." As was always the case, he drifted off.

He woke to giggling. Opening his eyes sent his heart into his throat. The doe-eyed girl with the slutty disposition was huddled on the floor against the wall across from his cell. Her smile could have gotten her a role in a Rob Zombie video. She was positively simmering with wicked glee, like a little girl who had heard a dirty joke for the first time ever and thought it so cool. Sheppard's heart beat hard and he dropped his gaze to his blanketed body. He was pretty sure he was still covered the way he'd been before falling asleep, but that was just placating hope. He looked back at the girl, glaring at her with narrow-eyed hate.

"Get yourself an eye-full?" he growled.

The girl giggled again, then rose to her feet sleek as a ribbon and scampered off like some coy nymph.

"I suggest you not take Vee'rana's little games to heart." Ki'vana stepped into sight with a pile of clothes in her hands. "She's more talk than action, likes to see the lessers squirm." She palmed the control panel and tossed the clothes inside, then left.

John didn't hesitate grabbing the clothes and tugging them on under the blanket, just in case Vee'rana decided to make an impromptu visit. The clothes, the same textile cloth with a buttoned collar making his chest accessible, made him feel less vulnerable. He still wasn't going to risk another nap, Vee'rana being all talk or not. His food was delivered with him wide awake as though all pretense of him being a possible danger had been given up. Or, more likely, it was a taunt trying to entice him into escaping just so Ki'vana could prove her cheap superiority by laying his drugged and sleep deprived carcass flat.

John entertained briefly the notion of starving – well, more like dehydrating - himself just for the pleasure of being a pain in the ass in a way that wouldn't end in someone else being killed. Except it probably would, or would send him straight into another storage cubby. Yet still he pondered it, verging on obsessing over it, and he had to laugh at himself even if it came out sounding a little hysterical, which it did.

He was a control freak. Considering a revenge tactic that was a more suitable retaliation for a sulky, grounded teenager? Yeah, definitely something bordering on control freak at wits end. Although, as he'd told Rodney one day, he liked to think of himself more of a man who worked hard at keeping the odds in their favor. And, yes, it sucked when that didn't happen.

_Yes, but starving and thirsting yourself just to make life slightly more annoying for an immortal wraith queen is a little less productive and a little more sixteen-year-old girl being denied a Corvette. _

John smiled. Good old Rodney. Even when he wasn't present in the flesh he still managed to find a way to instill bits of condescending wisdom into one's skull.

Sheppard dropped his smile. As much as he was glad his team wasn't suffering the same fate, he could really use them right about now, preferably as part of a rescue squad. Definitely the company, and the knowledge that there were others to watch his back, other minds to work out possible escape plans. Maybe that was being selfish, except his team weren't here, they were safe. It was just loneliness talking, fear, uncertainty, loss of his agency, all whittling him down into a four year old boy longing for his security blanket.

John pushed away from the wall and crawled over to his food only to stare at it.

Control freak.

No, he wasn't a control freak, he was scared. And when he was scared, he wanted to fight until there was nothing left to be afraid of or he was dead. When there was nothing to fight... except there had always been something to fight, whether a flesh and blood enemy or bull bureaucracy, there had always been something to poke and prod until he was met with a reaction rather than left contemplating possibilities. And he didn't need a degree in psychology to know that self-starvation was his poking and prodding.

John lifted the bowl, setting it in his lap. He wasn't stoic. He wasn't absent of fear. Hell, he didn't even ignore it. Fear spawned adrenaline and adrenaline kept him alive. He used fear rather than let fear use him. But when he had nothing to fight or run from, that left only good-old fashioned monster-under-the-bed fear, the kind he could do nothing about. The kind that left him feeling sick, helpless, and impotently pissed.

With a sigh, he brought the bowl to his lips, knowing it would be drugged, which would probably weaken him enough to bring his guard down. Even after his little nap he still felt drained enough to sleep standing up. But Vee'rana had returned, out of sight but close enough for him to hear her humming. When a few drops spattered on John's lips and nose, he realized his hands were shaking.

TBC...


	5. Full of Surprises

A/N: For further clarification, this does take place after Common Ground. Thanks again to all who reviewed. It makes me so happy! All mistakes are mine.

Ch. 4

Full of Surprises

John would have to say that his extra duties to the queen were more disturbing that skinning an alien animal. She had him crouched by her divan where she lay stretched and staring vacantly at the ceiling. She was 'petting' Sheppard, like a cat, her fingers brushing through his hair to slide down the back of his head onto his neck then partway down his spine. Every contact of cool, waxy skin against his own skin made him flinch. He'd recoiled fast when she first started, rewarding him with a drone's meaty hand clamped on the back of his neck, holding him down. He was released when he stopped trying to struggle.

"So," John said, "you do this to all your humans or am I just that special?" He tensed for possible retribution. He'd learned his lesson with the worshipers but wasn't sure the queen's limits since she seemed mostly indifferent to him.

"I find your unease and humiliation amusing," she said.

Or she was trying to work up an appetite.

John privately seethed. "You really do know how to flatter a guy."

"I try my best."

Sheppard stiffened. Had that been sarcasm? A sarcastic wraith. Wonders really never did cease. He smiled but it was a short-lived grin. The tone behind Morticia's answers had been flat, not quite as amused as she claimed to be, as though she petted him because she had to and not because she wanted to. Or maybe she simply wasn't in a chipper mood.

"Don't take this as a compliment or anything, but you're not really like all the other wraith..." he was about to say 'bitches' but quickly thought better of it, "_queens_ I've met, and here I thought I'd met all kinds."

Sheppard saw her smirk out of the corner of his eye. "I fear I have indeed taken that as a compliment. I prefer to think of myself as something... unique." She didn't sound smug about it, more like reconciled, as though it was what it was and couldn't be changed. Whatever _it _was. An _it_ she had grown accustomed to, apparently. John moved his head just enough to have her more in his sights.

He wanted to say something pithy, mouthy, cross lines and wear the limits thin just to see if this queen had any. Instead, he asked, "Why?"

Morticia's hand paused in it stroking. "Because I am."

John frowned. The queen smiled and resumed stroking. "I am old, little one. So old I still recall the days when many of our kind still retained a skin of natural armor. There had been no need to cull other worlds, then. We had what we needed; there had been no need for hive ships and the culling of other worlds. Let the humans exist, let them grow, take only what we need... but we had the means to obtain more and what we already had was not enough. I used to always say gluttony drove us to the stars. I still say that. Wiping out the humans we had was an excuse to leave our world. And we did."

"You don't sound happy about it."

"I have never enjoyed space travel. It confines me. If it were not for my plants, I think I would have gone mad."

Considering if she hadn't already, he said, "Guess that makes you kind of bitter, not being able to stay on one planet."

"I have become used to it."

Somehow Sheppard doubted that. Morticia was definitely unique, possibly harboring a little bitterness...

John lifted both eyebrows and smiled. "Is that why you haven't interrogated me?"

Again, the petting stopped. He was probably pushing it, but since he'd come this far without consequences he plowed on. "Keeping me around without trying to force the location of my world from my skull. This is some kind of vendetta, isn't it? Your kind wants what I know but you refuse to make the effort to get it because it'll piss them off." John's body jerked with light, somewhat manic chuckling. He had always been good at speedy deduction. "You hate your own kind."

Morticia's hand lingered on his back, right at the curve where spine became neck-bone. "Hate is such a strong word. If I truly hated my kind, I would have no hive. But I have my hive and it is my life. Although, I could do without the other queens. Their rivalries are tiresome. They sow the fields of your kind as though, soon, there will be nothing left. Which, I suppose, holds some truth. We were awakened before it was time. Whether the fields were ready was a matter of opinion. The others have no patience or there would be plenty. So they seek the discovery of your world as... _salvation_," she spat the word with a curled lip flashing jagged teeth. " It will be the same. They will cull that world to extinction, and then seek out another, then another, then another. I told them. I told them we need only ration and return to our slumber. We have no need to go beyond our own stars."

John turned his whole head to look at her straight on in complete bewilderment. He felt like the butt of a bad joke, caught in some prank so elaborate, so overdone that the punch line would drive him to commit homicide. Except this wasn't a prank, there would be no punch line, and everything he, the expedition, Teyla and Ronon thought about wraith had been chucked out the airlock.

Wraith weren't supposed to be complicated. They were hive minded, so how the hell could they be?

Morticia's hand started moving again. Her shark-eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, maybe ignoring Sheppard's slack-jawed expression or completely unaware of it being lost in her own thoughts. John went with the latter as she was looking uncomfortably irate. Then her face shifted, melting back into her thoughtful trance.

"We do not get along," she stated. "However, they know better than to cross me."

Obviously. For a wraith to have survived as long as she had without other wraith toasting her for not seeing eye to eye, she was obviously not someone to be messed with.

Morticia stopped petting and rolled onto her side with an echoing sigh, putting her back to John. Ki'vana arrived most likely on a command given by proxy through another wraith. She beckoned with a sharp wave for John to follow her. Sheppard did so with minor relief that the queen hadn't been feeling peckish today.

Ki'vana brought him to a chamber where a scattering of human females and, damn it, _kids _were laying out blackened skins to cut through them with what looked like miniature soldering irons. The skins were trimmed into perfect rectangles then folded up and set aside in neat piles. Two of the women were taking the pieces, cutting them into shapes that were then _melted_ together. Melted, not sewn with a needle and thread, as though the skin were actually plastic. The first woman to finish stood lifting up and looking over a brand-new wraith long-coat.

John coughed to cover up a bark of laughter. The wraith took the whole "using every part of the kill" to a whole new level. How much nicer would it have been for the Indians if Buffalo could sew?

"Holy crap. You have a chamber for making shoes and underwear too?" he blurted. It was hard not to say something as he had hit his quota of being freaked out.

"All soft clothes are prepared here," Ki'vana explained. "Only wraith turn the skins into armor."

John nodded numbly. It made sense that the wraith wouldn't want human slaves handling life-protecting gear. "Just for the record, I suck at sewing."

"Trimming," Ki'vana said. "All you are to do is cut the edges from the skins. Only those who are trained make the clothes." She grabbed a solder from a counter of solders and pressed it into John's palm. "Now get to work."

The uncut skins were stacked in a mound in the corner of the chamber. John took one off the pile and spread it on the floor. Cutting would be easy, even quick, just as soon as he figured out how to use the stupid solder. It was nothing more than a stick with a bullet-shaped tip, no switches or on buttons in plain sight.

"How the crap do I use this thing?" he muttered to himself.

A small, pale hand move into his peripheral to touch the base of the stick and the tip glowed yellow. John looked over then down at a girl who could be no more than five, dressed in too-big textile clothes and crouching beside him, fiddling with the tip of her braided auburn hair.

"Thanks," John said. The girl just stared at him with large, dark blue eyes. John lifted the solder. "Waiting to see if I use this right so you can correct me?"

"Sh-She's j-just staring because she's never s-seen you before."

John twitched his head toward a boy, probably no more than nine or ten but small for his age, kneeling by a partially cut skin. He had the same auburn hair cut short as though shaved, making John wonder if the wraith did that to better discern boys from girls.

"How long does it last?" John asked.

The boy dropped his eyes abashedly to the floor. "J-just yell at her... if you want her to go. It's what the others d-do."

Sheppard grimaced. "She's not bugging me, I've just never used one of these glowing stick things and I don't want her to be too close if I mess up."

The boy looked up and patted the floor. "Avi, come sit by me, Avi."

The girl moved onto her hands and knees to scurry over to the boy, plopping down beside him. Satisfied, John bent over his skin and touched the tip to the leathery surface. "So what's your name?"

"L-Levn."

John nodded. "Levn. Is Avi your sister?"

"Y-yes."

"Well Levn, Avi, I'm John." He stopped cutting to glance curiously over at the two children. "Are you, uh, here alone or...?"

Levn shook his head no. "Our m-mother is here. She w-works in the k-kitchens."

"Oh. I've been to the kitchens, maybe I saw her."

There was a brief moment of silence, then, "Do you have kids?" It had to be Avi asking according to the higher-pitched and non-stuttering voice.

John shook his head. "Nope, I'm here alone." He paused and glanced up when he saw movement at the entrance of the small chamber. A worshiper in black leather was wandering through the servants, eying their progress or looking for an opportunity to be a jerk by kicking at a few. John dropped his gaze back to the skin.

"What say we work quietly for a while," he whispered. "We might get in trouble if it looks like we're talking more than cutting."

"G-good idea," the boy whispered back. "Be q-quiet, Avi."

Consternation and guilt expanded in John's chest. Maybe they would have been punished for talking, maybe not, but the last thing Sheppard needed was for this worshiper witnessing him making a few new friends. They would be used against him, and he knew from too much experience that no physical wound was as painful as watching someone he knew get hurt, whether close or mere acquaintances. But these were kids he'd been getting to know, and watching even a stranger's child suffer was hard stuff.

The worshiper drifted toward them, between them, then wandered off.

_Mental note: don't make friends. _

John needed to be more careful.

------------------------

Sheppard came to the conclusion that he really was a special case what with Morticia's right-hand worshiper always being the one to escort him everywhere. After a long day of being crouched on the floor and petted, then cutting up skins until he was sure he had Carpal Tunnel syndrome, she led him back to his cell. Sheppard felt like an old man (his brief stint as an old man still fresh in his mind); his knees throbbing and his back stiff and aching. He shuffled more than walked, arching his spine, cracking the vertebra to work out the kinks and knots.

He made eye-contact with a passing wraith commander. It wasn't out of rebellion or defiance, but the subconscious reaction of all humans that alternated between looking away and looking straight at just to be looking. The commander curled its upper lip at him. Then it lunged, slamming John into the wall and yanking his collar open to slam its hand into his chest, hard. John gasped at the pain in his sternum, then stopped breathing all together from the larger pain shredding his insides. Life was ripped from him year by agonizing year stopping just at the brink of death. The feed-hand pulled away and John crumpled, a puddle of wrinkled skin and old, arthritic bones, wheezing like an asthmatic.

"You over-did it," Ki'vana said, vaguely exasperated.

"He will know not to stare directly at his lords," the wraith rasped.

Cataracts made the world fuzzy. John flinched when he felt slender fingers wrap like iron bands around his frail wrist. "That's fine, but bring him this close to death again and he might not survive it. Have one of your squad brought to his cell to revive him. And do it quick before he dies from heart failure or something else."

The wraith commander hissed.

"The queen's command," Ki'vana replied. "Always."

The commander hissed a second time in parting. Ki'vana dragged John like he weighed nothing back to his cell where he was dumped onto the blankets. She waited with infinite patience and boredom until the drone arrived. A heavy boot in John's shoulder shoved him to his back for easier access to his chest. The thick hand pressed on his aching sternum and life flowed in as painfully as it had flowed out. Sheppard arched his back, gritting his teeth against the burning suffusion of life-force soaking into his cells, fixing what was damaged. When the hand pulled away, John dropped back onto the blankets smooth-skinned and whole, chest heaving to recapture lost air.

Ki'vana knelt beside him and placed her fingers all over his chest, applying enough pressure to feel the bones. John winced and cringed when she hit a tender spot where the ribs connected with the breastbone.

"Just bruised or cracked," she said. "It will heal." She didn't do him the service of buttoning the shirt. She left him, the wraith drone following. Cool air settled on the skin of John's exposed chest and he shivered. He closed the collar with a shaking but still-young hand.

Then he slept, too exhausted and in too much pain to fight it. He wasn't sure if he would be able to last all the feedings and restorations. Give him fists to the face and a few kicks any day. At least he was used to those.

TBC...


	6. Another Day, Another Dollar

A/N: Phew! That was close. I almost uploaded the wrong chapter. This is why doctors say to never operate machinery when drowsy. Thank you everyone for your reviews. You have no idea how happy it makes me that this story is being enjoyed. Now, on to more Sheppard torment.

Ch. 5

Another Day, Another Dollar

It had to be a question of one's sanity that John preferred the torture coupled with demands to know that location or this access code. But it was the torture he knew, the torture that gave him something to fight against. Torture without the interrogations didn't allow a lot to fight for except to try and maintain sanity. Or, at the least, trying to keep his tormentor's satisfaction at a minimum.

It was impossible with the wraith and only partially possible with the worshipers. They were nothing more than school bullies and McKay wasn't the only one to have experienced the hell that was school bullies. Except the school kind eventually stopped, even went away. The worshipers were always there, always trying something knew, sometimes mundane, sometimes effectively cruel.

Vee'rana was the most adept, forever flitting about in the shadows, humming, wandering casually past his cell with a coquettish smile and eyes promising "soon". The only sleep John got was when exhaustion and the drugs laced in his food joined forces to knock him out against his will. Without the regular schedule of sleep, he had no way to mark the passage of time, so had no idea how long he had been on this ship.

There was a blond man (John didn't know his name) who liked to watch as Sheppard got fed on. He would do little things: spill a drink, have one of the skins cut wrong, or nudge a chunk of meat off the cutting table onto the floor. And John would always be blamed and have just enough life taken from him to cause him pain, then restored for an extra helping of agony.

The cloaked man – Loraph – would whip out a knife and press it to the throat of the nearest servant just to make John panic and reconsider his every action.  
The rest of the worshipers lacked in imagination. They shoved him down, kicked him, punched him, and beat him with leather straps or anything blunt they could find. John's back was constantly cold thanks to the tears in his shirt courtesy of a sound whipping. Bruises splotched his body like an abstract painting. And cracked ribs made it uncomfortable to breathe and the queen's "affections" pure hell. She seemed to know where the bruises were, liked applying a little extra pressure when her hand came to one, run a nail across a scabbed laceration just light enough to produce a sting.

Hunger was tossed in by those a little squeamish about drawing blood. Sometimes, on coming back to his cell, John would find his food bowl tipped over. Other times he would find water in the dish instead of the gruel. He knew it wasn't a tactic to weaken him. No need with the food being laced. But since starvation was just as good weakening the body as drugs, the queen remained indifferent when John brought it to her attention. As a result, he was losing weight, a lot of weight. Weight he didn't need or even have to lose. The bones of his chest were pressing against his skin and he could feel his ribs whenever his arm so much as brushed his flanks.

But he'd take the beatings and the hunger any day over the feedings. All random, with no respite, and he never saw them coming. Butchering or cutting the skins or being the queen's personal pet one second, then having a feeding hand rammed into his chest the next. He made it a point not to be anywhere near any of the kids for that reason. He tried, he really did, to stay on his feet about it, but the monotony of daily tasks, an empty stomach, and the drugs kept him completely off balance. A kick to the side or face got him to his back and a hand followed with a force that kept his ribs perpetually bruised and broken.

Sometimes he couldn't hold back the screams. It was all pain, pain, pain, major and minor, making it impossible not to flinch at every hand heading his way or tense when a wraith walked by. Between Vee'rana and damaged bones, he never got the sleep he needed until the accumulation of abuse to his body finally provoked him into passing out. It wasn't exactly sleep, but he would take what he could get.

Unconscious oblivion was the only break he got.

------------------------------  
"Kneel."

The pain slicing through John's brain didn't give him much of a choice. He dropped to his knees, the impact jarring up his legs to his hip-bones. The queen circled him with the air of one who had all the time in the world to play. Which is exactly what this was – playing.

"Lift your head."

John grunted, clenching his jaw, and obeyed. "Don't you want... to ask me some questions?" he gritted. "Like... whether or not... we have another war ship or... something?"

Morticia flipped the front of his shirt open. "Not really." She pressed her hand to his chest and siphoned life from him. Just a little. A year or two, the contact only seconds long. Then the life was shoved back in. The queen, apparently, had already eaten. John slumped when it was over, panting heavy. The queen used what looked like a black silk cloth to wipe her feeding hand clean.

"You are strong, little one," she said. "I feel that strength every time I feed. If I were to question you, you would fight, and my kind are not known for their patience." She tossed the cloth onto the divan and sashayed over to the nearest plant. "But the knowledge you possess holds no interest for me. Given time, perhaps I might force it from you." She stroked the broad, diamond shaped leaf of a blue-green miniature tree. "For I have so much time, little one. You may be strong, but you are only human, and humans are fragile creatures. Both their bodies and their minds. Given time, you will talk – if that is what I wish of you."

Now _that_ sounded very wraith of her.

"If there's anything left of me," John muttered, then added with a shrug that made him wince, "mentally, that is." The problem with people finding out that you'd been part of Special Ops missions is the automatic assumption that you're an unbreakable hard-ass. He'd gone through the training, learned to keep his mouth shut by _not _keeping it shut (sarcasm made for an excellent topic deterrent), and then was told time and again like a premature slap from reality that just because a man can recite name, rank and serial number to the bitter end didn't mean they couldn't be broken. There are the guys who eventually spill the beans, and the guys who seem to never give up because, frankly, their minds had wandered off to Wonderland with the intent of never returning.

Breaking was breaking, even if nothing was said.

Of all the interrogations John had been through, he had yet to determine which man he was. The interviews had never gone on for that long. Insanity would be the lesser evil since it would mean Atlantis and Earth remaining safe, but both possibilities scared the crap out of him.

No, what would take place to bring about those possibilities scared the crap out of him.

"I can already promise you that there will not remain much of your mental faculties," said Morticia. She pulled away from her plant to circle John at an uncomfortably close proximity, running the tip of a claw across his back, around his shoulders, and then over his bare chest. "You are the bane of my kind. You continue to exist so that you may suffer."

"You forgot to mention the part about pissing off your fellow queens." Despite the situation and being scared as hell, Sheppard couldn't help getting a kick out of that one.

The claw moved up to brush along the hair above his ear. "That too."

John's heart pounded and he fought not to pull away. Morticia tended to be a little extra rough when he did that. They had a very give and take relationship, literally and figuratively. Morticia alternated, quite fluidly, between amiable and being a bitch. Whatever John asked, she would answer. Not ask _for_, just ask.

Besides the wraith who commanded and the foot-soldiers/pilots, there were wraith whose soul purpose was to fly the hive-ships, make repairs, or conduct experiments. Few queens kept as many human slaves as Morticia did, which explained why Sheppard and his team had yet to ever come across any. Morticia preferred to keep all manufacturing as close as possible to avoid having to depend on making frequent stops to re-supply. There were worlds governed by worshipers where most human slaves were kept and worked-- kind of like super Seven-Elevens where a hive-ship could safely dock to make repairs. Five worlds in all scattered evenly throughout the galaxy. John didn't wonder why Atlantis had yet to come across any. If the Ancients were as smart as they boasted, then those wraith pit-stops would have been locked out of the Atlantis DHD.

In return for all these answers, John got fed on.

The queen stopped circling, tilting her head as though listening. She then smiled in a rather pleased way that made John's flesh crawl. "Follow me, little one."  
The command skewered his brain. Grunting from pain, John climbed to his feet and limped after Morticia. They did not go far, just to the command center with its holographic displays that wavered like heat on asphalt, streaming data in Wraith. A blue, earth-like planet filled most of the lower portion of the view-screen tossing arctic blue across the slick floor. Darts swarmed from the hive ship thick as a cloud of albino mosquitoes converging to suck the helpless planet dry.

John's fists clenched, his heart pumping fast pushing blood that burned with more impotent rage. "Wow," he spat with enough venom to taste it sharp on his tongue. "A freakin' culling. Never damn well seen that before." He turned his heated gaze on Morticia. "Is there a point to me seeing this or do you just like showing off?"

Morticia smiled. "I merely wished to witness your reaction. Rage is most uncommon. Sometimes there is anger, but it is always eclipsed by despair. I have seen those who thought themselves the most defiant, the most hardened, drop to their knees losing all hope." She tilted her head inquisitively. "Of course, it was normally their own world they were watching the destruction of. But, being a man so _protective_ of his own kind, I wanted to know just how far this trait of yours extended. I wanted to know how far your loyalty to your own kind reached. Many, when it turned out not to be their world, collapsed with relief."

Wrong. She wanted to shove her superiority a little further down his throat. She wanted to make him feel small, helpless, insignificant and insubstantial. Like there was no hope. Like this was Armageddon and he was riding shot-gun.

And it was working. It was that whole control-issue thing again. Here he was, at the right place, but the entirely wrong time. It was effective torture, going past the body to strike the soul.

Maybe she was right. Maybe he would eventually talk.

_Like hell, like hell, like hell, like hell. _He would go insane first. Crack and let his brain leak into oblivion until he was babbling the Oscar Meyer Weiner song.  
_Or maybe, if I could just move fast enough... quick cut to the throat with that butcher knife or solder... If all else fails and I can't escape..._

_  
_Escape, he needed to focus on escape. He wasn't desperate for death yet. Neither did he want to give up that easy. Not if he didn't have to.

Neither did he want to.

He flinched at a cool, tightening grip around his wrist. Morticia gave him a small tug on the arm. "Come, little one. I have a new task for you."

She brought him to the hanger where darts were already whining their way back, unloading their cargo onto the walkways where drones scooped them up, hefting them over their shoulders to carry them to storage.

Warm, scentless air tickling the side of John's neck made his heart lurch. "Help them," Morticia breathed.

Every muscle in John's body pulled tight as a guitar string. Men women... crap, _children_ were scattered sprawled like dead bodies. Children, teenagers and a little boy who had to be four or five. Morticia must have been aware of where his gaze was fixed when she drifted over to the child, kneeling beside him and stroking his small, dirt-smudged face.

"We do not care for your young," she said. "They provide little sustenance. Few are ever taken, being hidden by their parents. The ones that are taken we allow to age in the _cyrsextas_ until they are able to provide... _more_."

John felt sick. They shoved kids into those damn alcoves. Freakin' _kids_. And age them like damn wine? Had he anything in his stomach, John would have puked it up over the side of the walkway.

Morticia stood and sauntered up next to Sheppard letting her breath roll across his carotid when she leaned in toward his ear. "Now help them."  
John cringed when the roiling in his gut sharpened into pain. He clenched and unclenched his fists, locking his knees to keep from bolting. He couldn't take his eyes off the little boy.

"_Help. Them."_

_  
_Sheppard shook his head. He couldn't. He'd been in those damn cubbies and he couldn't be responsible for shoving someone else in them. The queen pulled away, her next inhale riding a quiet hiss. She whipped her head around and a drone bowed his head, going for the little boy to start nudging him toward the edge of the walkway. John's heart slammed hard enough to break a rib. The boy's body inched closer until a small, skinny arm dangled over the precipice.

John felt himself shrivel and he croaked, "Wait."

The drone stopped nudging and the queen smiled. She placed a hand on his shoulder as she passed him. "Very wise, little one."

John shivered. He turned his head enough to watch her go out of his peripheral and saw Ki'vana smirking behind him. Hating her, hating all wraith, and hating himself, he stalked over to the nearest body a drone was lifting and took it by the feet. A woman, mid-twenties, dressed like a medieval peasant in ragged clothes and shawls. She was a small, thin woman but John's arms still shook trying to handle the weight of her legs. Warm legs, alive, heart still beating, lungs breathing. When they came to the storage chamber the drone dumped her unkindly and began stripping her clothes off.

Sheppard looked away. He cringed at the squish and slurp of the living body being shoved into an alcove. The drone gave him a rough, bruising shove in the back and they returned to the bay for another living body. More darts had arrived, unloading, and lines of drones tossed future meals over their shoulders, sometimes two at a time. John's heart beat harder and harder until he was shaking beyond just the effort of carrying his fellow humans. He felt like a traitor, a closet worshiper in denial, hiding behind the excuse of what needed to be done, because he couldn't watch a kid die. Except that kid was going to die, eventually, after basting for several years, stewing in nightmares and torment, dead with his heart still beating. John wasn't saving anyone, just deluding himself.

The boy was last; John could see him even before he entered the bay. He ran ahead, beating the drone to the small body and scooping it up. He turned to Ki'vana, daring to do something that might only make things worse. "What about servitude? Can't the kid be a slave?" Maybe that wasn't any better since it was just another nightmare the kid would be living, but if John could just find a way off of this hive that allowed him to take a few with him, then there was still hope for the boy. It was better than the alternative.

Ki'vana tilted her head in a very wraith-queen fashion. John felt his insides knot. Of course they weren't going to grant what he asked. _He_ was the one asking, and there weren't exactly any better natures to appeal to.

Unless there was something else he could appeal to. "He'd just be a waste of space in the... Kire... Cy... storage things. So you let one of the human women take him, train him up. Hell, maybe you could convert him. Bet your overlords could do with another disciple."

Ki'vana lifted her chin and smirked. She knew what he was up to. At the same time – although maybe it was just John giving into too much hope – she seemed intrigued by the idea. "I will consult with the queen. Set the boy outside the bay. You are not done yet."

John did so. Transporting humans to the cubbies killed a little more inside him, but he found consolation that the rest of the bodies delivered weren't kids. Very small consolation scrounged because he needed it to keep from puking. Ki'vana returned after the last body for this level had been delivered, as though she'd been waiting until the task was done to make sure John had done it to the last.

"The queen finds favor with your suggestion," she said.

Relief drained John until he could barely stand. He had the impression he was being rewarded like a good little dog for a trick well done. He didn't care. At this point he would take what he could get. He started moving toward the boy when Ki'vana's leather-clad arm thumped him in the chest. She didn't look at him but at a drone that she pointed to, then pointed at the boy. "Take him to the slave den. Put him with one of the women with children."

The drone lifted the boy like he was a rag doll and carried him out of sight. John wanted to follow since he trusted the wraith as far as he could kick their ass with his bare foot. Ki'vana kept her arm in place for a little longer before dropping it. "The queen is pleased with your cooperation. Come with me." She moved off, leading the way, as usual, back to his cell.

"So why am I the lucky stiff with the private suite?" he asked. He crossed his arms over his chest to try and stop their shaking. He felt tainted, dirty, like he'd been smeared with motor oil and tar which took a lot of creative and uncomfortable methods to remove. "Why haven't I been tossed into this den?"

"Because the queen does not trust you. The den is several decks below and she wants you where better watch can be kept over you."

Vee'rana's humming started up as soon as they reached the cell. Ki'vana palmed the panel then shoved John inside. There was no food today, just a cup of water. John turned and tilted his head in the direction of the creepy, child-like crooning. "Think you could do something about that?"

Ki'vana gave him a mordantly beatific smile before palming the webbed bars closed. "No."

"Then you're as big a bitch as your queen."

"I'm flattered," she replied. She started walking away. "I will be sure to relay your sentiments to my queen."

John sneered. "She already knows." As soon as Ki'vana was beyond sight, he stepped forward to press his forehead against the slick bars. He could have sworn Vee'rana's tune was a little Ring-around-the-Rosie with a bit of Rock-a-by Baby thrown in. He'd never liked Rock-a-by Baby. He curled his lip over his teeth.

"Will you shut up!"

Vee'rana giggled, humming louder.

TBC...

A/N: Oh, John, what am I doing to you? (Pats his messy head). 


	7. Meeting of the Predatory

A/N: Thanks you everyone for your feedback. Nothing makes me happier than knowing when a story of mine is being enjoyed.

Ch. 6

A Meeting of the Predatory

A touch to the chest spooked Sheppard like a splash of arctic water, waking him with a start, gasp, and recoil. A lithe body flitted away in a flutter of airy beige clothes and girlish giggles that turned into wild, throaty cackles of delight. The webbing slithered shut behind the little nymph. John fumbled with the open collar trying to close it. A touch to the chest was as far as Vee'rana ever went and John was way too high-strung to be oblivious to even the slightest brush of air across his skin. If today had been the day Vee'rana went a little _lower_, John would have known.

But some days the exhaustion was too much, and even the incessant humming and pulsating ache in his chest couldn't keep him awake.

John dropped his head back to the floor. Mind games were not overrated. Sheppard had tried to tell himself the opposite over and over so he could roll his eyes and pretend Vee'rana was nothing more than a brainless little thirteen year old in the body of an adult who was lucky she wasn't pregnant yet. But it was all just self-placation. Vee'rana knew _exactly _what she was doing. Torture without context – she hummed and giggled and threatened molestation for the sheer joy of it, because he couldn't do a thing about it, and nothing was more of a hoot than one establishing dominance over another using very little effort.

And wouldn't Rodney just get a kick out of this? _What is it with you and Pegasus Galaxy women, anyways?_The Kirk jokes were funny for a time, but McKay had a tendency to never know when to quit. In the beginning, before all the buddy-bonding missions had broken the ice a little more, Rodney had made a lot of assumptions, such as Sheppard being a love 'em and leave 'em, girl in every port, one-night-stander who probably had a gaggle of illegitimate children back on earth. The words weren't exact, but the actual words eventually blurted had said as much. All of it in anger, of course, over the whole Chaya thing.

But John wasn't like that. Good crap, he was _not_ like that. He would never do that to a woman – lead her on then ditch her later. His mother had raised him better than that, damn-it!

The crap had hit the fan when Rodney brought up the Sharing, because John had to talk about it for the sake of mission reports and security.

_It wasn't glowy sex you bastard!_ And it wasn't, but he hadn't been able to make McKay understand that. It was... it had been... _sacred_. That was the only way John could put it. Sacred – like a prayer, like safety, like _love_. Not physical love, but emotional: the love of kin, of family, friends, of a wife long before everything crumbled to crap and left him heartbroken and alone because she hadn't wanted to wait for him. It had been warmth, safety and the kind of calm like knowing that everything was going to be alright, with no more reason to worry. It had been a long time since he'd felt anything remotely like that.

But all John had been able to say was that it had been sacred and Rodney, who scoffs at anything and everything of a possibly spiritual nature, well, _scoffed.  
_Rodney was lucky he hadn't walked away with a broken nose that day. He'd later apologized for everything said, possibly under duress from Elizabeth, Beckett or Teyla, and John had apologized in return. Lots of apologies with no real resolutions, although Rodney had yet to ever bring up Chaya and the Sharing again. That was enough as far as Sheppard was concerned, knowing Rodney.

John squeezed his eyes shut when pain ripped through his skull. Where had he been going with all these wandering thoughts? Crap, he didn't even know anymore. He supposed, if he wasn't alone but imprisoned with another man, that man would just tell him to give in.  
"One night and she'll probably leave you alone," said his imaginary friend.

Sheppard curled his lip over his dry, filmy teeth. "Go to hell." Yeah, give in, give up, be all hers just like she wants. For what, a few hours of sleep? No, Vee'rana would want more, and more. He'd be hers, just like she wanted, end of story.

"She'll take you anyways, pal."

Good, then he could fight her, finally have something to fight.

"She'd probably kill one of those kids to punish you."

John's heart shriveled like a prune. His rather obnoxious imaginary friend was right. But he couldn't give in. He wasn't like that. He didn't use and he didn't let himself be used. He didn't give up, and giving in to Vee'rana's little game would be just that. It would mean that she had broken him. He needed something to fight for, and remaining 'untrained' was all he had going for himself.

"Dumb idea..." said the imaginary friend buddying up to his libido. John scowled at empty air, and then gave it the finger. He needed someone better to talk to, someone who would understand.

_Don't give that scarga the satisfaction, Sheppard._

_  
_John smiled. Ronon got it – would have gotten it if he was here. And _scarga_, supposedly, was the worse thing someone could call a woman on Sateda.  
He was sure Teyla would have been proud. Actually, Teyla would have kicked that girl's skinny back-side three times before she hit the ground by now. Then some servant or one of the team would have been punished, and it would be Teyla Vee'rana would be playing mind-games with, probably by an attempting to drag off one of the men for a one-night stand of her own. And John, being painfully aware of the status of his luck, would probably be the one when he was too drugged and weak to fight back.

Sort of like now, minus his team.

John sighed then growled low in his throat. He needed to stop thinking. Or, if he had to think, he could at least be thinking of a way out of here. He hadn't been remiss about planning an escape, just unable to figure anything out. At least that's what he would be telling his team if they were here.

_Just grab the nearest stunner and knock them all out._ Ronon's words, or possible words. But easier said than done and all because John had already tried that and had been rewarded with a sprained wrist and complete humiliation. Ki'vana had been waiting for him to make a move, no doubts there, so she was probably still waiting. Either her or the queen. Both were quite content in their superiority but they didn't let pride dull their intelligence. They had learned pretty damn fast which buttons to push on John to make him more obedient, and Sheppard wasn't going to risk any innocent lives unless he could take them along for the ride.

And there-in lay the problem.

_You're aiming too high. _Rodney._As nice as it would be to kill the bad-guys, save the village folk, and live to tell the tale, sometimes it's just not possible to multi-task like that._

_  
_John hated the logic in that very McKay-like thought. His chances at escape would go from one in a million to one in a thousand if he just focused on saving himself, and boy-howdy, didn't that realization bite. Leave behind a crap-load of innocence to be haunted by their faces in his nightmares. He did the leave behind thing, once, and not because he had wanted to. His chopper had been full and there had been no room for those two women and that little boy. He'd hustled the refugees to safety as fast as he could, then found out he couldn't return for those last three because the territory had been overrun.

The news had hurt. The faces of complete strangers had ended up burned in his dreams for weeks. Combined with a couple of personal experiences on being left behind later on, and ditching all others to save one's own ass became an alien concept to John, like a foreign language. It hurt to leave people behind and it hurt to be left behind. He just couldn't do it.

_Come back for them later?_

_  
_John could picture perfectly Rodney's withering look of exasperation. _Yes, we'll skip from hive ship to hive ship just to find this one. Want to count sand at the beach while you're at it? That would probably be easier and a hell of a lot safer._

_  
_Sheppard started to chuckle until pain seized his chest, forcing him to stop.

"Does something amuse you?"

John rolled his head to see Ki'vana standing outside the cell with a bowl in her hand.

"Life in general," Sheppard said.

Ki'vana's reaction was a slight raise of her eyebrows, which meant she was amused. If she wasn't, she wouldn't have reacted at all. She palmed the cell open and stepped inside, setting the bowl on the floor then giving it a hard nudge with her foot to send it sliding over to John. "Eat. The queen wants your strength up. She thinks you are getting too thin."

John lifted the bowl in his hunger-shaking hands. "Didn't know she cared."

"She wants you to suffer, not die."

Bland, colorless mush had never tasted so good. John's whole body shook with the reintroduction of nutrients and the fight not to drink it faster than his stomach could handle. He gulped it all to the last drop, then licked the bowl clean for good measure before finally setting it down and wiping his mouth. "Then maybe she should teach her pet humans to get along with me."

"They know where the limits lie. Come," Ki'vana turned. "Time for your tasks."

She took him to what he now called the "sewing room" to trim up a few more skins. The kids were there, along with there 'new' little brother who Avi said was named Kilup. Kilup, always red-eyed, flushed, and with a tear-stained face, stuck close to Avi like a frightened pup.

Their mother was also with them. Anja, Avi said her name was. She usually made a ghost of an appearance in the sewing room, sometimes to cauterize skins together if the chamber was low on seamstresses, or to gather what had already been put together. She made an effort to walk past her kids whenever she could, whisper to them, make sure they were doing well, and to give John a surreptitious look that was wary, frightened, and even a little hostile. Avi had tried to do the whole introduction thing only have her mother pull her away and scold her for talking to new-comers, especially those that did not reside with them in the den. Supposedly, not dwelling in the slave den equaled traitor or (in John's case) a _special interest slave_.

John didn't mind the somewhat hostile attention. Number one, it didn't involve abuse, and number two he was trying to avoid forming any kind of bond. The last thing he needed was for Vee'rana to dangle one of the kids over a hanger-bay platform like a worm just to hear John beg.

"Lavn," Sheppard heard Avi hiss. "You're making the edges all fuzzy."

"I-I kn-know. The th-thing won't work r-right."

John glanced over at Lavn trying to trim off burnt strings of flesh, but the solder wouldn't cooperate, worsening the situation. "I h-hate it when w-we get the b-bad o-ones."

Avi tugged on the sleeve of Lavn's shirt. "Get mum, get mum, get mum!"

Lavn's hand shook as he tried to force the crappy solder to cut. "I-I-I c-can't. I c-can't. They'll n-notice. Sh-she'll g-get in t-t-trouble."

"We'll get in trouble," Avi quietly whined. "They'll hit you. They killed Mikle when they hit him." Tears flashed in Avi's eyes. "They'll hit you."

The clomp of heavy boots pulled John's attention to the door to see a worshiper making his rounds. John didn't hesitate or even really think. He leaned to the side snatching Lavn's skin, sliding it his way while shoving his own skin to Lavn, then switching solders. "Don't say anything," he whispered.

The heavy leather boots, as expected, stopped next to John. The male worshiper crouched snatching the skin up to look it over, only to toss it back down in a fit of disgust. "You stupid, clumsy..." he snarled, rising to slam his boot into John's ribs with a force that knocked Sheppard onto his other side. Pain tore through previously abused bones, and if they hadn't been broken before they certainly were now. John automatically curled into himself, both hugging his side against the pain and to protect it from any more assault.

The worshiper snorted. "Pathetic." He clomped off satisfied by his administering of justice. John kept one hand pressed to his side while pushing himself up with the other. He sat back gingerly, testing his range of motion. He couldn't straighten, neither could he slouch with the pressure it put on his ribcage.  
"Y-You okay M-Mr. Sheppard?" Levn asked, big-eyed with fright.

John nodded. "Yeah, I'm good."

"They could have hit you dead!" Avi shrilled, just as wide-eyed.

John smiled and tried not to chuckle. "Takes more than a slap or kick to kill me. _Way_ more." He focused on cleaning up the frayed skin with the broken solder. It was painfully slow and intricate work that shot fire through his flank drowning out the ache in his back and hand. He paused, arching his back until the vertebra popped.

Ki'vana was heading toward him. Time certainly flew when one wasn't paying attention to it. He was escorted to his next task for the day instead of his cell. The butcher shop of Sci-fi horrors was extra rank, today, from boiling fat and blood. He was often alternated between the dining chamber and the meat chamber as though to keep things interesting for him. The meat might have been rancid but at least he came out of skinning animal carcass with far less bruises than in the kitchens.

There was no getting used to a hive ship having a butcher's and a baker's. He wondered if the wraith utilized candles, too. That fat was being boiled for some reason. He would have to ask Morticia about it.

After tearing flesh from meat and bones, soaking himself to the skin in sticky blood, John was hustled off for a "bath" that nearly flayed him alive. He was dragged back to his sell dripping pink-tinted water and left to shiver naked under a blanket until fresh clothes were tossed into his cell. Vee'rana had a way of making an uncanny appearance between the bath and waiting for clothes.

John was given more porridge that a nutritionist would agree wouldn't make a lick of difference to his current weight. Crap, Ronon could probably pick him up by the scruff between thumb and forefinger. After the meal, Sheppard wrapped up in one blanket and curled in the nest against the wall farthest from the cell door, stared into space, and endured another round of persistent humming from Vee'rana.

On the plus side, it kept him from being taken by surprise when some wraith commander walked in fast and desperate to feed on the nearest warm body, taking just enough to age but not to kill. It was a while before a drone was sent to return what was taken, turning minutes into hours as John squirmed from various pains throughout his body.

He couldn't help the oblivion that followed. He just couldn't take it any more after that.

------------------------

John felt drained, literally and figuratively. He'd awoken to being fed on, then being restored, but without the usual burst of energy that followed after. Actually, all the body-restoration seemed good for was smoothing the wrinkles out of his skin, not returning years. The first time he'd been restored, after escaping Kolya and being drained to save two lives, he'd been wired like having four cups of coffee and ten Mountain Dews poured down his throat. Current restorations were lacking in that. Not at first, but like with overdoing it on certain kinds of medication, the effect had worn off. He would probably have to be taken to the very brink of death and brought back to feel the same rush he had that day.

It sucked as he'd been relying on those surges. Beatings, druggings, a crappy diet and the feedings were breaking his body down. He might have remained his true age on the outside but inside he was verging on seventy. He shuffled after Ki'vana with a hand pressed to his throbbing side, his shoulders stooped, his back ever-so-slightly bent, and a raging headache that made his skull feel like it was being split in two. She took him into the queen's chamber, letting him make it the rest of the way to the center.

Bone tired as he felt, he had Spidey-senses enough left to know that something was different. For one, the chamber was darker, shadows drenching the far walls where the spidery plants were supposed to be twitching in the wake of recycled air. He felt like he was being watched in the worst kind of way, numerous eyes drinking him in, pulling him in too many directions. He shivered, unable to help it.

Morticia detached from the shadows moving unusually swifter; a slight increase of speed as she approached him. She circled in close around him, touching the back of his head in passing. "Kneel."

John's body wasn't in any condition to fight it this time around. He dropped with a jolt of pain to his knees.

Another wraith stepped out of the shadows, this one shorter but just as lithe, trailing jet-black hair that almost touched the floor. A much taller red-head in white leathers detached from the darkness on the right, a third – blond in black – from across the way, and a white-haired fourth to the left of the blond. An array of wraith queens in an assortment of hair colors. John might have been amused if he wasn't shocked and scared numb. One too many carnivorous females with wicked mental powers not to feel panicked. John's heart thumped hard and fast, and he was surprised it wasn't echoing in the chamber. The rush of fear-induced adrenaline burning through his blood shoved sweat through his pours, soaking his clothes and sucking in the cool air of the chamber until he couldn't help shivering.  
Even without the cold, he would still be a quaking mess. One queen he could handle, no problem. More than one... John's imagination was good enough to come up with a lot of scenarios, but they mostly centered on feeding frenzies or too many hypnotic voices making demands to tear his brain to shreds. Maybe, if he was lucky, they'd tear each other's minds apart instead, but luck wasn't all that nice to him and he doubted the queen's were _that_ petty-- especially around Morticia.  
Though every queen had eyes only for John, they seemed unable to move any closer, prowling like hyenas waiting for an opening to move in for the scraps.  
John clenched his fists in the hopes of stifling some of the shaking. "This a convention or family reunion?" he said, his voice strained from the pain driving spikes through his skull.

Morticia's hand passed lightly across John's back, sliding up to his shoulder and resting there in a rather possessive display. "It is the _Kynsaxlas_," she breathed. "A council of the oldest of the queens."

"Yeah, my grandma used to go to one of those, only they would crochet sweaters. What do you bunch do for fun, huh?"  
Morticia's hold tightened when the red-head flowed in closer. "This is not for pleasure, little one. There are days when my daughters are in need of guidance, and days when they must be put in their place." She looked at each alien woman pointedly. So pointedly they recoiled back, heads bent and gazes through their eyelids. It paid to be an old crone among the wraith. With age came experience, wisdom, and most likely a hell of a lot of fire-power in terms of their mental abilities. That had to be what John was seeing, why the queens were acting cowed. He had just assumed it to be some kind of show for respect. The fact was: the life-sucking witches were afraid of _his_ life-sucking witch.

That gave him no consolation what so ever.

The moment of establishing hierarchy stretched beyond being a moment, which meant they were talking, mentally. After that extra long stint of silence, the white-haired queen began circling. "This cannot be the one who woke us. This cannot be the killer."

"You have seen the death dreams," replied Morticia. "You have seen the faces in your sisters' minds before they died."

John narrowed his eyes. "Death dreams."

The queens hissed and the blond pointed at him. "Silence!"

One glare from Morticia and the hissing stopped. "If one of us is moments away from death – dying or knowing we are about to die – we release all our experiences to all our sisters and daughters. Images only, no time for words -distance also does not allow for it - but it serves as ample warning of those we should be wary of and those who need to be destroyed."

Sheppard was filled with a thimble-full of relief at that. It explained a lot, such as why the rest of the wraith population continued to be oblivious to Atlantis' continued existence, while also explaining why the Lanteans were such a popular enemy.

"You are explaining our ways to him?!" screamed the brunette. "He is food!"

"He is the killer!" snarled the red-head.

White-hair stepped forward. "Why have you not searched his mind? He is from a world rich with life. Why do you not pull his world's location from him?"  
Morticia's hand lifted from his shoulder to start caressing his hair. "Because I do not feel like it."

The queens hissed, shrieked, baring their teeth and twitching their heads. The noise stabbed through John's ears like one of Carson's over-sized needles and he cringed back, covering them.

"He is not ready yet!" Morticia called loud and clear above the din, and the cacophony stopped dead. "If I were to try and force the knowledge from him, he would fight me until dead. I wish to weaken his body. A weak body will lead to a weak mind, and make him more willing to talk."

John could feel a little of the stifling tension flit out of the room, while his own tension tightened his muscles until he thought his bones would snap. The queens seemed content with this, not happy, just satisfied enough to stop pushing the matter.

"When will he be ready?" asked the blond.

Morticia cocked her head to the side. "When he is ready. We wait centuries for riper feeding grounds; we can wait less than this human's meager lifetime."

The red head joined the white-head in circling, both spiraling in closer. "What if he does not last that long?" she said.

Morticia's hand stopped on the back of John's neck. "I will make him last that long. I will make him last longer."

"What does he taste like?" white-hair asked with a grin and a tip of purple tongue like dead tissue moistening her lips.

A hand slammed into his back, over his spine, and the agony that normally ripped from his chest now burned from his back spreading across his shoulder-blades and down to his hips. He arched, screaming at the combination of shock and excruciating pain. Then he was yanked from it by an iron-tight grip around his wrist that pulled and twisted him away from Red's feeding hand. There was a lot of screeching, Morticia advancing on her fiery-haired daughter and raking her across the face drawing four lines of black blood. It was all like a hazy dream to John between the pulsing pain in his back and the fresher pain in his wrist that he cradled to his chest. He was vaguely aware of tingling in his feet and legs that wouldn't move.

"I can get nothing from him if you kill him!" Morticia roared. "You stupid child!" She shoved Red to the floor before turning on her other daughters in a flutter of dark cloth and silver-hair, orange-eyes flashing making her positively demonic. The other queens cowered back, bowing their heads in sincere humility and apology. Even white-hair backed off after attempting to close in on John.

Morticia strode stiffly and furiously up to Sheppard, placing her hand over the stinging wound on his back to return what was taken in a surge of white-hot agony. The tingling, however, stayed put. "You are all too eager," Morticia spat with disgust. "You have seen the killer Lantean. Now let us move on to other matters before another of you decide to do something _stupid_." With a twitched nod of her head, Ki'vana led two drones to drag Sheppard by his good arm and collar back to his cell, dumping him on the blankets.

John rolled onto his back, thought better of it when pain pulsed along his spine, and rolled onto his good side cradling his wrist that he knew for a fact was beyond sprained to being broken.

"Crap that sucked," John moaned. He hadn't even thought it was possible to be fed from the back. The chest was probably just easier access. Now he had to wonder whether or not he was crippled. However, according to the diminishing tingle and his increasing ability to twitch his big toe, he was happy to realize he wasn't.

"Do not mistake what she did as affection."

John rolled his eyes up to glare at Ki'vana. "You're still here?"

"You are an asset to her," Ki'vana continued. "One she isn't going to waste."

Sheppard smiled caustically. "Kind of figured as much the day you people caught me."

Ki'vana stared at him, her expression like an unpainted porcelain mask too solid to see through. A lot of minutes passed before she finally broke eye-contact and turned away, leaving the cell and palming the webbing shut before turning down the corridor. John dropped his head onto the blankets and laughed, despite how bad it hurt. He didn't know why, just that he felt like giving in to a little manic chuckling.

Sheppard didn't doubt Morticia would rip any and all information concerning Earth and his fellow Lanteans from him. He didn't doubt that, despite her claims otherwise, she would dole that information out to her daughters. And he definitely didn't doubt he was beyond screwed, more screwed than he had ever been in his life, even with the Iratus bug, then the mutation, and then being fed on. This was the pinnacle of his entire wraith experience, and it was so damn fitting he couldn't help but to find it amusing.

It also helped him to ignore the constant company of his terror.

TBC...


	8. You Can't Always Get what you Want

A/N: Candy for everyone! Chocolates and cake and ice-cream because you rock that much! Thank you, thank you, thank you for your feedback. And a big thanks to Drufan for beta'ing and coming up with chapter titles when I couldn't.

Ch. 7

You Can't Always Get What you Want

It was a pain in the ass carrying the heavy pitchers one-handed. If they weren't made of heavy metal, then they were made of heavy ceramic that increased from pounds to tons when liquid was added. He spilled most of the contents en rout from the kitchens in the neighboring chamber to the table that gave him unpleasant flashbacks to his very first wraith/hive ship encounter. Even the food now looked the same back then. John had always wondered where that food had come from, if it had even been fresh or was just there to taunt the humans. Then he'd met his first worshiper, which had cleared things up. Who would have thought some wraith kept humans as pets?

Sheppard tried to keep the spillage within the safety of the kitchen and among other servants. He was doing pretty good until a worshiper shoved him aside to get through to their seat, with plenty of room in the chamber to have avoided that. Amber liquid slopped over the rim onto Sheppard's sleeve then to the floor.  
The cloaked worshiper grabbed his arm by the wrist, tight, forcing it toward the handle. "Use both hands you idiot!" In turn, John cried out in pain and dropped the pitcher all together. It shattered spraying liquid and shards in a radial pattern. Loraph gave John a massive shove of disgust that sent him sprawling to the floor for someone else to deliver a casual kick to his back, right on the tender spot. He arched, grunted, but didn't give these people the satisfaction of another pained cry.  
"Get another pitcher, animal!" Loraph snarled. John rolled onto his hand knees, and then pushed himself to his feet. He stifled a glare until he returned to the kitchen since the cloaked creep loved a reason to retaliate. John had come to the conclusion that Loraph hated humans more than any other worshiper, possibly even hated himself, and he was pretty sure Heightmeyer would agree with him. These particular worshipers – mostly the men – liked to imitate wraith the same way those fops of the seventeen hundreds liked to slather on white make-up and dab on lipstick because they thought it looked good. Long hair, poorly dyed to powdery colors, and pale complexions made the worshipers look more like rejected elf-extras from Lord of the Rings. They didn't like being human, so they played pretend to a level that made the delusional seem downright sane. Every bite of food and sip from a goblet was met with a wrinkled nose or sigh of discontent. Some even had scars on there hands, just to complete the make-believe.

Problem was they sucked at it. They couldn't even get the arrogance right. Wraith were at the top of the food chain. Smug wasn't just a choice, it was a natural as breathing, enabling them to pull it off with fluid style. The worshiper's were still too human in their pride; too rough, jagged and abrupt about it. Even their mind games and abuse – effective as they were – were too... _much_, overdoing it, reacting like spoiled and pouty little children instead of enraged and hungry beasts.  
Except for Ki'vana, but that woman didn't react to much of anything. If she thought herself wraith, then she certainly didn't act like it. Probably easier and less painful to shut off all emotion than give into delusion. It was always stupid to fool one's self. It was weakness. Keep thinking yourself a wraith and when that hand goes in to feed with nothing to show for it, you're screwed, because you just gave your opponent a fighting chance.

Ki'vana was all about advantages. Pretending didn't do crap. It made John wonder if she'd been raised from a toddler to be the ultimate worshiper, with the obedience of a Labrador retriever and the bad-ass-ness of a pit bull - the type sent among the human masses to either convert or rat out, or just plain rat-out since the preachers of the squad probably didn't last long.

John stopped in front of the counter lined with filled pitchers and checked his wrist. The bruising was dark to be almost black and swollen around the break. Pain throbbed almost fresh and refused to back down. He tried pressing the discolored flesh to the cold metal of a pitcher, only to pull it away when the contact stung.  
"Here, quick," said a quiet, timid voice, and thin-fingered and fine-boned hands popped into John's vision, making him flinch. The hands moved deftly tying a cloth around the break, pulling tight, trying to be gentle but failing. John gritted his teeth sucking a hissing breath through them.

"Sorry," Anja said with a grimace. He had not recognized her with that pale yellow scarf around her head keeping her willow-brown hair back.  
"I've had the bones of my leg realigned while I was awake," John said. "So believe me when I say this is nothing."

Anja tied the cloth off with a smile of pride for her work. "There. Better?"

Sheppard nodded. "A little."

She helped him with the pitcher by holding it high enough for him to get his arm around and press it to his chest.

"I want to thank you," she whispered, "for what you did for my children."

John nodded. "Uh-huh." He started to turn away.

"They don't know kindness," she continued. "We mostly try to ignore each other. It's better that way."

"I know," John said, swallowing.

"But, sometimes... sometimes, it gets to you, because it gets too much like being alone even with so many people about..."

John whirled around, eyes darting about to make sure no wraith or worshipers were within hearing range. "Anja, I know. Crap, how I know. But you've gotta keep ignoring, especially me. Tell your kids to stay away from me because I am the _last_ person you want them to buddy up with."

Anja's mouth open in preparation to ask why when Ki'vana entered, looking straight at John. Anja's mouth worked before she finally spoke. "I-I don't think that drink is chilled enough." She took the pitcher and handed him another. Yeah, she got it.

John was allowed to deliver the pitcher before being escorted to his next task.

--------------------------

John's visit with the queen was short lived. They started off with their usual greeting - her forcing him to kneel, this time on all fours. John had fought it as he always did since it was something to fight. Today, however, the queen didn't find it amusing. Maybe female wraith did have monthlies, or something else was going on, maybe concerning one of her daughters. Morticia hissed and struck John across the face before plowing her hand hard enough into his chest to turn a few more of the cracks in his ribs to breaks. She fed long and vicious, sucking life from him as though reaching in and ripping out one organ at a time. He was brought to the brink of old age, just before death was inevitable, before she quit. It took two drones to replenish him, and the first had stumbled out of the chamber half-starved.

Ki'vana was none too gentle about dragging him back, hauling him along by his broken wrist and even twisting it a little for good measure. "The queen tires of your recalcitrance," she said, then shoved him into the cell. The look on her face was controlled annoyance, but her vice grip on his wrist had been way beyond annoyed.

John hadn't had the strength to remain on his feet when shoved. He pushed himself up into sitting, scooting back beyond range of fists and feet. "She kind of gave me the impression she liked it," he simpered. "I thought defiance was tasty."

Anger flickered for the span of a heartbeat in Ki'vana's eyes. "She prefers loyalty."

"She really isn't like other wraith, then," John said. A hive mentality didn't equal loyalty. Most queens' interest lay in the advancement of their own hives. Sheppard had seen it for himself. They worked together because they had to, not because they wanted to.

"She does not like that she must rely on a single food source to survive," Ki'vana said.

That one statement said more about the queen than any other action or words. It hit John then – the queen's almost human-like mannerisms and her general air of unhappiness. While her followers longed to be wraith, she would rather be human. Yeah, it would mean giving up immortality, but at least she wouldn't be a slave to her appetite. Maintaining a healthy supply of food was a pain for any species. A limited food source meant beggars couldn't be choosers, and a wraith who was the happiest keeping her feet on one planet didn't have that luxury.

John couldn't help but sneer, "Ah, gee, poor baby. I'd feel for her but that bitch hasn't given me much of a reason to. As for loyalty, she'll get that when hell freezes over."

Another flicker of anger, this time longer. Ki'vana sauntered toward John to crouch in front of him. "Then this hell must be a very cold place."She reached out. John flinched, tensing, expecting a blow or at least a slap. What he got was her finger tracing his jaw, scraping across the stubble then down his throat to press her nail against his pulse point, like a threat. "You will bow to her, Lantean. Sooner or later. I promise you that." She patted him on the cheek, then rose sinuously and swaggered away, slapping the panel for the bars to slither down.

John tilted his head back and closed his eyes, exhaling a shuddering sigh. Ki'vana was right. There would come a point when John would bow of his own free will. It wouldn't have seemed a big deal, but the majority of people didn't fall from grace in one massive jump: it was always step by step, little by little, inch by inch, sometimes starting with nothing more than a simple little prostration.

John slid down along the wall onto his side, too exhausted to reach out and grab a blanket, and definitely too exhausted to fight sleep.

------------------------

John snapped awake to pressure on his shoulders and another pressing in on his solar plexis. He opened his eyes wide to Vee'rana's smiling face and giggling voice.

"It's time, Lantean," she purred. "Time for us to play."

Sheppard's heart lurched and he panicked, squirming, bucking, trying to wriggle his shoulders free. Vee'rana pressed harder, curling her fingers to dig her nails through the cloth into his skin. John couldn't get her off. He was too freakin' weak, even with fear pumping him full of too much adrenaline. Vee'rana leaned forward to increase the weight on her knee digging into the soft spot below the sternum until John couldn't breathe.

"Calm down, Lantean. You only make this harder on yourself. Do not prolong what is inevitable." She then back-handed him hard enough to stun and loosen him up so she could free up one hand to yank the collar of his shirt open. She pressed her palm into his chest, her nails into his skin, digging in until blood beaded like fat red pearls that slithered around her fingers. She laughed. "Your heart beats fast. You are afraid of me, Lantean." She moved her face in scant inches from his. "And I am not even wraith."

The hand shot up from his chest to grab him around the throat and squeeze, cutting off more of his air. Vee'rana's lips pulled back from teeth filed to a sharp point. "Sleep now, Lantean. Sleep that I may have you, and then it will all be over."

No damn way. John clawed at the fingers around his throat trying to rip them off, which seemed to please Vee'rana immensely. Crap, it wasn't about sex, not entirely. It was about the pain, the suffering. She was a freakin' text-book case sadist. Sheppard switched tactics by grabbing her throat, pumping every molecule of energy and strength he had left into his hand. Vee'rana didn't like it, and released his throat to tear his hand away with little effort, yet giving John enough time to pull in sweet oxygen. Vee'rana lifted her hand for another blow, this time with a fist. She brought it down fast into his jaw and John went with it, snapping his head at the right moment to deflect most of the contact.

John moaned, feigning disorientation, until Vee'rana leaned back and removed some of the pressure from John's middle thinking him too out of it to do anything.  
"I do like it when they fight back," she said, breathless, rubbing her neck. She reached for his throat again.

John snapped up grabbing Vee'rana by both arms while flipping himself around, sending them into a roll landing them both on their sides. Vee'rana shrieked and head-butted John. John whipped his head back avoiding most of the impact. He brought his leg up, planting his foot into Vee'rana's stomach and shoving her back enough for room to flip onto his own stomach and scrabble away. Vee'rana was immediately on top of him, clawing at his back, pulling his hair, and shrieking in his ear. John snapped his elbow into her face feeling the satisfying crunch of bone. Vee'rana lurched back and John shot forward away from her, scrambling to his feet then around straight at the open cell door.

This was it, the perfect opportunity for escape – his only opportunity, one that kept him from thinking, just acting. All the days of planning, searching, trying to find that one flaw in the routine, one drone not on his guard, one vent or alcove he could hide in or stunner he could grab, all with fruitless results – no way was he passing this up. Get out, get to a dart, get the hell out of here. Bring back the Daedalus, maybe, to save the others... He charged from the cell into the hall and turned, colliding with an outstretched hand slamming into his exposed chest. Pain ripped white-hot through his body sending him to his knees. His back bent, his head thrown back, and his gaze locked on the slit-like shark-eyes of a wraith commander.

------------------------------

John shivered in the queen's chamber. Cool air brushed his chest and slithered through the tears in his shirt to breathe against his skin. He stood hunched, hurting, and exposed in the center of the over-sized room as the queen circled him.

"You tried to run, little one," Morticia said. John shot a withering glare in Vee'rana's direction. The girl was standing next to Ki'vana just outside the shadows.  
"Can you blame me?" he croaked. It was hard to talk, his throat tender and raw as though he'd been screaming. Except he hadn't. He hadn't had enough air in his lungs to between being choked, fed on, and restored.

Vee'rana was all manic smiles and wild, burning eyes exacerbated by the mess of black bruising around her mangled nose. Creepy as the effect was, pride surged every time John looked at the damage he'd inflicted.

"Did you think we would not be ready for it?" Morticia countered.

John shrugged then winced when Vee'rana's claw-marks pulled. "I'm of the philosophy that it never hurts to try. Look, if you didn't want me to run, then you shouldn't have given the horny girl free access to me."

"My worshipers are free to do as they will to you," said Morticia, "as long as it does not lead to your death."

John was getting dizzy watching the queen's circling, so he focused on Vee'rana, pouring all hate and anger onto her. "I don't know... she'd gotten pretty damn close." Swallowing hurt just as much as talking. "She got off light compared to what she tried to do to me."

Morticia smiled. "Vee'rana has unique tastes. She knew what she was doing."

"Like hell," John snarled.

Vee'rana stepped forward. "Punish him!" she screamed. "Punish him now!"

Morticia lifted her non-feeding hand. "He will be punished. You will learn, John. One way or another, you will learn that there is no escape. You are mine, and you would be better off if you accepted that."

The doors slid open for two guards to march in dragging a cringing, sobbing Anja between them. John's heart shot into his throat and debilitating numb into his veins. "No," he shook his head. "No, no you can't... she didn't even do anything... I don't even know her!"

Morticia sidled up next to John to start fingering one of the rips in his shirt. "You know her, John."

Anja was yanked by the collar to her knees. She was shaking, tears cascading fast down her face. She cried harder when Morticia approached her and shrank back when the feeding hand was extended. John broke from his shock and tried to lurch forward only to be hauled back by Ki'vana coming out of nowhere. Morticia's hand inched purposefully closer, prolonging the torment and savoring the terror.

"Wait," John begged. "Wait, gosh, wait, no, don't, please, please. I'll... I'll let Vee'rana do whatever she wants. I'll be good, damn it, I'll be good just please... I'll kneel to you."

Morticia's hand stopped hovering centimeters from Anja's chest. John perked, his heart thudding fast with too much hope that he knew he shouldn't be giving into. He nodded despite the fact Morticia was not looking at him. "I'll kneel to you. You don't have to make me anymore. Just... let her go. Beat the crap out of me, feed off of me," he tugged on the halves of his shirt opening them wider, " just let her go."

Morticia's hand continued to hover, and seconds stretched like hours. John locked gazes with Anja, trying to tell her it would be okay as she silently pleaded with him to help her. She had kids, she couldn't leave them. John couldn't let this happen, not this time, not to her.

Morticia tilted her head to one side. "If it were only that easy." Her hand slammed into the woman's chest, knocking the breath from her lungs so she couldn't even scream, only moan, a guttural and almost animal-like sound. Smooth skin shriveled, brown hair grayed, and eyes clouded with cataracts. Morticia pulled her hand away with a satisfied hiss letting Anja's body crumple into a heap of dried skin and bones.

Except she wasn't dead. She was still breathing, John could see it. Just enough life left to extend the punishment. John would have puked had his stomach not been empty. Instead, his legs weakened, shook, and gave out driving him to his knees. He had done this. This was all his fault.

The queen studied her hand for a moment before turning and approaching John. She paused next to him, but didn't look at him. "You are not in a position to make deals. You needed to be punished."

Vee'rana chuckled, light and airy. Anja's frail body was dragged from the chamber.

Morticia leaned in close to his ear. "It was your own doing, little one."

John nodded without realizing. It was his own doing.

It was all his fault, all his.  
--------------------------------  
The feeding had left Anja senile. She did not recognize her children and her children did not recognize her. They hovered close to John in the sewing chamber, Avi constantly tugging on his sleeve.

"Have you seen our mother, Mr. Sheppard?" she asked with a tear-stained face. John never answered. He made an effort to ignore them, while at the same time watch them. Not that it mattered, not that anything he did or tried to do would matter. Since it was obvious John had had some interaction with the mother, then it was painfully blatant he had formed a connection with the kids. They would be used against him. John couldn't risk that happening. So he stopped searching for ways to escape, just to play it safe.

Sheppard focused on being a good boy. He went about his tasks, stopped asking the queen questions, but fought her influence out of spite, although without his usual level of defiance. He just didn't have the energy for it. He was being denied food more and more because of what he had done to Vee'rana. He was sent to the butcher chamber more, the stench of blood burning itself into his nostrils until even the bruising baths and clean clothes couldn't get rid of the smell.

The worshipers were harsher, as though taking out the fact that they weren't born wraith on him. More kicks, more shoves, more blows to the face if he so much as breathed too loud. And, just to make things extra interesting for them, they would attack Anja just to provoke him. It worked, too, because the growing rage would make John forget everything else. The moment he lunged to stop the verbal and physical attacks was the moment the worshipers converged on him, beating him down until he no longer moved.

Anja eventually died. Levn had told him as much.

"The n-new old l-lady died th-this morning," he said. He paused in cutting the skin to look at John. Moisture pooled shimmering in his sunken eyes. "I th-think they t-took mother. I th-think she d-did something, and w-was p-punished."

John stopped cutting because his hand was shaking too hard. He lowered his head to hide the moisture burning in his own eyes. He said nothing.

Two days later – maybe it was two days, John wasn't sure – he was brought from his cell to the hanger where he saw Vee'rana standing behind Avi, Avi too close for comfort to the edge of the walkway, Vee'rana's hand smoothing the girl's hair.

Vee'rana smiled. "Why don't you make this easy on yourself?"

Something inside John died. Shaking, he nodded. They went back to his cell where Vee'rana pinned him to the floor, ripping his shirt open to press her hand to his chest and play pretend. She didn't get any father when Ki'vana arrived.

"The queen wants him," she said.

Vee'rana pouted but backed off with a bow of her head. John was escorted to the chamber where Morticia waited, forgoing skulking in the shadows. She stared at him, right in the eyes, long and silent.

"Well?"

John cringed. Was it really worth it? The fresh nail-pricks still oozing blood said so, as did the image of a little girl about to be shoved into the abyss. "Just... make her stop, please." Something else died, and it hurt. He lowered himself onto one knee, then the other. Morticia's lip curled into a toothy smile and she moved to him, running her fingers through his hair.

"Was that so hard?"

The door whispered open. Vee'rana was escorted around to John's front by two drones. The girl was beaming exultantly, the happiest worshiper alive to be brought before her queen. The drones made room for the queen to circle the girl, stroke her hair, her face, then grab her by the jaw and twist her neck with a resounding snap. Vee'rana's body dropped boneless to the floor.

Morticia looked at John. "You see? Your obedience rewards you."

John stared at the body of his tormentor. He found it odd that he didn't feel a damn thing. At least he would be able to sleep, now.

--------------------------

John was so tired. It was hard to focus, to hold the knife steady as he sliced between skin and muscle, to tug the skin from the carcass. He didn't have enough strength and the rebound of all the tugging kept sending him to the floor. Blood slicked every inch of him, even dripping down into his collar, drawing red lines on his body. He blinked his eyes trying to clear the mist, and when he pulled himself up, slipped in a puddle of blood that sent him back to the floor, smashing his chin. He grabbed onto the meat and tried again.

The door to the butcher chamber opened for a squadron of wraith, commanders and drones, rushing in a frantic search as though they were being invaded and had completely forgotten where they'd placed their weapons.

"Oh no!"

John looked over at his neighbor who was slowly backing away. "The coffers are empty. Not enough food to go around." The man broke into a run, finding the nearest alcove to squeeze into making himself as small as possible. John looked back to see wraith grabbing slaves left and right. Some they pushed aside, others they took a few years from. Not enough to kill, just enough to sustain.

Except for a desperate few that drained bodies to the last. John stared transfixed in horror. A feeding frenzy, he was witnessing a damn feeding frenzy.  
One clawed hand pulled him back by the collar, another slammed into his back. A drone hurried in from the front to plant his hand on John's chest. A third tried to pull him from the fray.

"Not him! He is the queen's, not him!"

All noise was suffocated under pain. Pain like nothing ever felt, like what was never meant to be felt, devoured him. It tore him limb from limb and shredded his insides into ground meat. It burned him and froze him and turned him inside out. John screamed and screamed and screamed until his lungs emptied shriveling into nothing. His heart was not beating; it was getting ready to explode.

"_Not him!_"

Then it was gone, in a blink, like someone flipping a switch, and he was quite happy to let the darkness have him.

--------------------------

John awoke to cold slime coating his naked body and a harsh back-hand by déjà vu. He shivered and whimpered trying to shrink away from the corpse-like face of Morticia. The first time hadn't been hell. This... _this_ was hell. This was insanity and delusion and all in his head, just in his head. A bad dream, that was all. He was safe, on earth, locked up in a padded room. Safe, totally safe, this wasn't real.

Morticia reached out tracing a claw from his temple down to his jaw, then his throat. There wasn't enough room to pull away.

"Please," John begged in a voice rubbed raw and barely discernible from so much screaming. "Please... kill... me... please."

Morticia cocked her head to the side. "Not yet, little one. Not yet. Rest and heal, now." She left him to the cold and the wailing of the damned. John lowered his head and sobbed.

TBC...

A/N: I know, I know – Let John be rescued already! Keep in mind, it takes time to properly break someone. But at least Vee'rana caught her come-uppance, right?


	9. Climbing Solsbury Hill

A/N: Surprise! Special treat for you all. An early posting!

Ch. 8

Climbing Solsbury Hill

John opened his eyes prematurely. Ki'vana wasn't here yet, but his food was. This was the part where he drags his uncooperative and lethargic body over to the bowl and takes an hour to eat one sip at a time. The cubby had kept him alive long enough to ensure he would remain alive, but it hadn't healed him. The alcoves were needed for newly acquired food, so he had been booted to heal on his own. Except he wasn't, even with food and time to rest. He was so damn weak he couldn't stand without help, and could barely crawl.

Today, crawling wasn't worth the hassle. Maybe, weak as he was, if he avoided food long enough, he would die and even being shoved into a storage alcove wouldn't save him. He'd considered hanging himself with the blankets, except for the whole unable to stand thing. Plus, there were no rafters or anything else to tie the blankets to. Something had to give, because this wasn't living and it was only a matter of time before the queen buckled down and started the interrogation. John was ripe for the mental taking. Not only would he talk, he knew he would talk and not even realize he had said anything. He was too damn tired to think, let alone fight.

Sheppard closed his eyes. Five more minutes, he was pretty sure that was all he needed. He felt the smooth floor shudder beneath his hands, making him vaguely wonder if the organic-like skin really was alive, maybe even sentient. Distant thunder rumbled and the floor went from vibrating to all out shaking. He opened his eyes and lifted his head.

Something was wrong.

Ki'vana appeared approaching fast, tense, and sharply focused. She slapped the panel and waltzed into the cell, grabbing John by his upper arm and not even allowing him the decency to get to his feet. It took a lot of scrambling and falling until he was able to more or less keep up with Ki'vana at a stumble.

"The queen's impatient today," he stated.

Ki'vana gave his arm a hard tug, propelling him forward just enough to have him walking along side her. "Change of plans."

They hurried past the storage chamber where wraith were swarming, sucking bodies dry until shriveled corpses remained, the animal screams dying into liquid-sounding chokes until silenced. The ship rocked at another clap of thunder knocking John off his feet. Ki'vana yanked him back upright without mercy.

"We under attack?" John asked, amazed.

"Yes," was Ki'vana's abrupt reply.

"By who?"

"No one of your concern."

They entered the bay that thrummed with the whine of darts swarming in a cloud out into space. The queen stood on a platform surrounded by drones, two commanders, with worshipers clustered outside her protective circle and slaves outside the worshipers carrying sacks and other bundles.

"I have him!" Ki'vana called. She shoved John toward the other slaves. Strangers caught him and kept him upright on instinct while Ki'vana pushed through the masses to be by her queen's side. Three darts circled above like vultures. One dove scooping the queen and her entourage up in its beam. The second dart grabbed the worshipers and the third the slaves. The ship bucked hard just as the beam enveloped John, sucking him into darkness.

Darkness vanished replaced by a meadow of knee-high grass bordered by tall, red-wood like trees with dark-green trunks. John barely had time to blink against the bright day when they were hustled away from the tree-line to a cliff-side the opposite way. They filed into a narrow opening, following a tight, inclining corridor deep into a humid cave reeking of minerals, moss, water, and a little decay. The way eventually opened up into a cathedral-sized chamber stretching deep into the hill and down into the earth. John thought he could hear the hollow rush of a subterranean stream above the din of clattering feet and harsh, uncertain whispers. The one supporting John set him against the flattest wall in the cave. Florescent blue-green wraith-lights, like giant glow-sticks, were tossed along the walls and in the darker corners. The light glittered off beaded moisture and veins of quartz and crystal.

Morticia's own and the wraith worshipers gathered in the center of the chamber for a conference.

"Our hive should be leading them away by now, my queen," said a commander.

Morticia inclined her head. "I want to leave as soon as possible. My daughter knows me well enough to know where I will go next, and I want to be there before she is given the chance to arrive."

John straightened, craning his neck to hear better. So this was a domestic dispute.

"It will not be safe, my queen," said another commander. "Word will spread quickly of what has happened. The others will take advantage of this."

"Which is why we must hurry." Her eyes searched through the gloom until landing on John. "I would die happy in the knowledge that my daughter did not get the better of me. Should my ship be destroyed, it will be some time before I can find another." Her jaw worked, muscles twitching. "My plants... it took me many centuries to collect them." She whirled around, black skirt billowing, and lifted her head. "Loyal ones! Listen to me. I must leave you here where you will be safe. Find comfort in the knowledge that I will return for you. For now, I must leave, as my life is in danger. Take care of what I leave behind that we may rebuild what we once had. And do not venture beyond this cave for the safety of all."

The worshipers, with adoration glowing in their eyes, nodded and murmured in agreement at their queen's wisdom. John snorted at their stupidity. The queen wasn't coming back for them. The fact that Ki'vana and two other leather-clad worshipers were following the queen from the caves said as much. Of course the favorites went, but everyone else was replaceable.

As for himself – he couldn't be sure. Maybe it was all a matter of "if the queen can't have him, no one could" and that included the juicy knowledge concerning earth still kept safe in his skull. So it went when daughter-wraith pissed mommy-wraith off. Either the worshipers would kill him off, or he'd be picked up in a culling, drained dry without the wraith realizing who he was and what they had just killed. Now _that's_ what John called poetic justice.  
Or, maybe, she did plan on coming back.

Or... maybe something else he couldn't begin to figure out.

Morticia's collection of human pets was left to mill about, worshipers on one side, servants cowering on the other side. John gave it five minutes before the worshipers started beating on the servants.

John felt a tug on his sleeve and smiled, already guessing who it was. He turned his head anyways to see Avi, Levn, and Kilup settling down beside him.

"M-Mr. Sheppard?" Levn said. "Wh-what's happening? W-why are w-we h-here?"

"Is this where the wraith live?" Avi asked.

John shook his head. "No, this isn't where the wraith live."

"Wh-what is it, then?"

"Just a cave. We're just here to wait."

"For what?" Avi asked.

John shrugged. "For whatever comes."

The kids scooted in close to him and John let them. Like it mattered now, and these kids needed someone to cling to.

It wasn't quite five minutes; at least it didn't feel like five, when the worshipers advanced on the slaves, ripping the sacks out of their hands to pile on the worshiper side of the cave. So playtime began with worshipers tossing crusts of bread or strips of meat to the servant side to watch them fight over the scraps. It didn't start off as fighting, more one person running out to snag the food and divide it up as much as possible to share with the others. Problem was, there were too many, so they alternated, some getting food one time, others the next. John declined anything offered to him, having it passed on to the kids instead. They were too deep in the cave to see the passage of time that was measured by growing desperation instead. The worshipers stuffed their faces, and then laughed when servant cooperation melted into chaos and actual fighting.

And bloody fighting it was after a while, with a lot of clawing, punching, kicking and screaming. Some still retained the decency to share, especially with any kids, but those decent few were getting scarce. Still, it was odd the flip-flop between self-preservation and survival for all.

At least water wasn't an issue. The servant side was toward where the tunnel dropped toward the subterranean river, and the slaves were smart enough to use it. Food was given to whatever servant fetched water for the worshipers.

What was sad was that there were more slaves than worshipers, but the slaves were too weak and the worshipers armed with stunners. It ensured that the status quo continued to suck. Although, it could have been worse. John was sure the worshipers would have converged on him by now to kick him to death. There must have been some fear floating around of a possible peasant revolt. All it would take is for one or two of the slaves to grab a stunner and start firing for all they were worth.

The worshiper's weren't exactly helping themselves by denying the larger population food. Hungry slaves moved restlessly - wolves in the wait, growing rabid with each scrap they were denied. The queen had yet to return, food was running low, and mounting tempers were escalating into madness.

It was making the worshipers nervous. Several were making it a habit to keep their personal stunners ready.

John had managed to scoot father back into the cave away from the potential ground zero where fighting would break out, if it did break out – and it would. He'd found a nice little niche to curl into with the kids and watch as everything deteriorated around them.

"We could take them..."

John opened led-laden eyes to five slaves squatting in a circle. Two he recognized, the bigger men of the butcher chamber, less bulky from lack of food.

"When they're asleep?"

"We rush 'em, confuse 'em, grab their weapons and what's left of the food. Make them beg, make them fight for _scraps_."

"They'll have us on the ground before we can take a swing at them!"

"Not if we move in at once, confuse 'em, hit 'em with rocks..."

John lifted his head he'd been pillowing on his arm. "Hey," he croaked, cleared his throat, and tried again. "Hey."

Nervous, vacant eyes snapped his way, blinking incoherently.

"Screw trying to get the food. It's not going to last long anyways. What you need to do is get out of here and get some help."

"And get ourselves killed?" a blond woman argued.

John dropped his head back onto his arm. "Or die here for certain. Better to risk death out there for the chance to live than just waiting to die here."  
Talking sucked the energy right out of him, so he never heard the others' response. He woke up to a commotion-- people bellowing, blue-white flickering like lightning-- and the kids huddled up against him, shaking. John lifted his head and looked down to see the back half of the revolt.

No, not revolt, escape, with several high-tailing it into the narrow passage leading to the exit. Worshipers chased after them, stunning away, while servants coming in from behind tackled the worshipers to stop them. Children and those too weak to fight huddled in niches and behind pillars of rocks just trying to stay out of the way.

"Who's winning?" John asked no one in particular. The next thing he new, the worshipers scrambled to one side and the slaves the other, all holding stunners on each other. Interesting as the Mexican standoff was, the effort it took for John to keep his head up and eyes open was too hard. He dropped it back to the floor, closing his eyes, just for a minute.

He opened his eyes to someone shaking him, and a thin-faced woman kneeling in front of him holding out a sliver of meat. "Here, friend, take this." She pressed the meat into his hand, hovering until he bit off a chunk. She then scooted closer, pulling a water-flask from a belt of cloth around her waist. She placed the flask within reach of his mouth and tilted enough for water to trickle instead of pour. When John was done, he pulled away, wiping his mouth.

"Guess we won," he rasped.

The woman smiled shyly. "Something like that." her smile faded. "Are you all right?"

John sighed. "Probably not." He'd never felt so drained in his life. He couldn't even finish off the meat the woman had given him. Sheppard gave in to more sleep since it was less of a hassle. He was certain he was reaching the point when he would never wake up again.

-----------------------------

John did wake up. There was another commotion, another revolt. He couldn't even lift his head or move it to see it. The kids pressed in close, shaking and whimpering.

"Drop your weapons and they'll be no one hurt."

"Those be wraith weapons! We must kill them, all of them!"

"Calm, Galvin, calm! We'd been warned. They are not all boot-lickers of the wraith..."

There was a flash of sizzling blue-white, followed by shouts and the thunderous crack of a rifle firing. Hell broke lose, again, the cave amplifying the acoustics of the rifles until it stabbed through the ears straight to the brain. The kids screamed, people shouted, and then the noise died down leaving only shouting. Boots clattered toward them; human shapes silhouetted in the failing glow-sticks. Hands pulled the screaming kids from John, though he tried to pull them back, and then hands reach out toward him. Newly formed instincts sent his heart into a hammering frenzy and he mustered strength enough to pull back, yelping when his still-tender back hit the wall.

"Easy, friend, easy! We're not here to hurt you. It's all right, now." The hands closed on his arms and the front of his shirt, pulling him out then up. His legs buckled fast almost dropping him except for the hands still holding him up.

"Whoa, there! Set him down gently, now. Someone fetch the litter. Blasted glad we brought 'em."

John was set kindly on the ground, a blanket or jacket or something placed under his head. Someone touched his arm; another touched his cheek and then his forehead. "The man's burning up."

_Huh_. John hadn't realized he'd been getting sick.

The litter was brought and more hands touched John to lift him onto it. He was carried out in a procession of people with litters between them, out into the blinding white of day and fresh air that poured clean and pure into John's lungs. He breathed deeply, rolling enough to look up into a clear blue sky so open and endless it took his breath away. A wrinkled face blocked the view, a blue-eyed old man with snowy hair thinning on the scalp moving in close, checking him over with nothing but concern. "You with us friend?"

"Yeah," John gasped. He just wanted the man to move so he could see nothing but sky. The man finally did, and John smiled, tears tickling his face.  
Free. He was freakin' free. Which didn't seem right since he was supposed to be dead-- wasn't he?

----------------------------

John was definitely supposed to be dead by starvation, sickness, pissed-off wraith worshipers, or something. So it didn't make a lick of sense to be lying on a soft pallet, covered to the waist in a warm blanket as an elderly man with long, silver hair and a gray beard poked and prodded his bumps, bruises and breaks. John hated all the touching, tried to pull away, but lacked any strength to do so. Except when the man touched his chest, that contact sent John flying right off the pallet onto the hard floor.

"Easy, there, young man," the old man soothed, pulling John back onto the pallet. "Easy. Didn't mean to startle you."

Brown rags were used to wrap John's breaks around the chest, wrist, and formed into a sling to cradle his arm because of a broken collar bone. John hadn't even realized he had a broken collar bone. A middle-aged woman wiped his face and neck with a cloth to help keep his fever down. They tried to spoon-feed him some kind of broth, only to have him pull away. He was still trying to keep that sliver of meat he ate who knew when from coming back up. They eventually gave up, muttering in concern.

John fell asleep, warm, safe, and knowing he wasn't supposed to be. Grand enemy of the wraith, prisoner of the wraith, being tortured by the wraith...  
He was _not supposed to be alive._ Wraith were killers, plain and simple.

_I should have woken up dead today, yesterday... ten days ago._

_  
Obviously. Something's wrong, then. _

_  
_"Mr. Sheppard?"

John opened his eyes to see Avi kneeling next to him. He smiled at her. "Hey, kid. What's up?"

Avi tucked her hair behind her ears, hair the exact color and length as her mother's and it hurt to realize. "Mrs. Kanny said it was okay to see you. She's the lady who is taking care of us. A lot of the ladies are taking in other kids. I think she's going to let us live with her. She's really nice, gave us this bread that was sweet and stuff, and soup that tastes waaaaay better than the white soup the wraith gave us. I asked her if she would let you stay and she said maybe but that you're a grown-up and might have someplace else you want to live. If you do, could we live with you?"

John's chest jerked in a weak, airy chuckle. "Don't know. Probably... not." He omitted saying anything about the possibility that he might not make it, because he felt beyond crap and wasn't sure how much longer he would last, even with a healer nearby. But Avi didn't need to hear about it.

Avi placed her hand on John's head, pushing his hair back from his forehead. "You can stay with us if you have no place to go."

John reached out to take her smaller hand into his larger and squeeze. "Thanks Avi."

Avi beamed. "You're welcome!"

-------------------------------------

John wished people would leave him alone. He wasn't getting any better, doubted he would, and just wanted to get it over with. He couldn't stand all the touching. Too much of it, always coming out of nowhere to take him by surprise and scare the hell out of him. These people didn't get that, so in turn made it worse by adding more hands to grab and pin him down when he tried to pull away. It confused him, made him forget where he was until he was freaking out, struggling until he finally passed out into sweet, numb oblivion, only to wake up to more touching.

They tried to get him to eat and he couldn't. Tried to get him to talk and he wouldn't. He didn't have the strength for either, not even for the kids when they visited.  
"He is dying," John heard the old healer say just outside the door to the hut where the infirm were being kept. "He has held on longer than many of the others but is beginning to fade. I do not know what else to do for him. Perhaps... perhaps you know something..."

"I bloody well hope so or I've no right to call myself a healer."

John opened his eyes. He knew that voice. He _knew_ that voice. Oh, gosh, he knew that voice! He knew it, he knew it he knew it...!

"In here, good sir."

"Oh, none of this good sir rubbish. You can call me Dr. Beckett."

John's heart threw itself into his ribs and his breath caught in his lungs. He wanted to see. Oh, crap, how he wanted to see, but hot moisture was blurring his eyes and his hand kept shaking too damn much to wipe it away.

"I would prefer to call you Ancestor-sent. You and your people. Helping us without the intention of receiving something in return."

"Just your friendship. We've not enough allies as it is."

John tried to lift his head, got it off the pillow an inch, and then was forced to drop it back. The old healer led the way into the hut followed by another so painfully familiar it shook Sheppard to the core, stopping his breath all together. He wanted to get up, run to him, hug the life out of him, beg him to take him home, ask him why he was still alive when he shouldn't be. He wanted to ask about Rodney and Ronon and Teyla, if they were all right, if they had escaped. So many words to say that they became tangled in his brain, coming out as a strangled whimper. If his heart beat any harder it was going to explode.

Beckett froze when he turned to John and it didn't seem possible for a man to turn that white. Carson's bag slipped from suddenly lax fingers, landing with a hard thud on the floor to be completely forgotten. "Oh, bloody fires of hell!" he breathed. Then the moment of shock shattered. Carson lurched forward, dropping to his knees in front of John, grabbing the Colonel's face in both his hands that shook.

"Colonel Sheppard? _John?_"

John reached up to wrap his thin, weak fingers around the doctor's wrist, holding on with everything he had. "C-Carson. Carson, Carson..." over and over, the only word he could say.

Beckett pressed his lips together trying to stifle a sob. His eyes glowed bright and iridescent with moisture that slid from the lids down his cheeks. "John, oh John, bloody hell..." Dr. Beckett was forgotten. Carson Beckett leaned forward gathering John's emaciated body to his chest in a tight embrace. John forced his languid arms to raise high enough to grip the sleeves of Carson's jacket, which was the best he could do.

Fatigue, hope, relief, and terror that this was all just a dream shook John, hard. "Home… take me home... please, take me home..." If this was a dream, he at least wanted home to be a part of it. It didn't feel like a dream, though. Crap, he hoped more than he had hoped for anything that it wasn't.  
Carson released John to lay him back on the mat, but John refused to let Carson go, just in case.

"Aye, I'll take you home, John, I swear. It'll be a few minutes but we'll get you home." His quaking hand went to the radio at his ear. A stretcher was called for and Carson asked the healer for his dropped bag, since John refused to relent his hold. Beckett checked John over as they waited, listening to his heart and breathing, content with the heart-beat but unhappy with the lungs. He was gentle when he looked at the bruises, refraining from touching them, asking the old healer about the injuries instead. The stretcher finally arrived carried by two marines gaping bewildered at the sight of their beaten and wasted CO. It took Beckett shouting at them to get them moving, loading John gentle as glass onto the litter then carrying him outside.

Avi ran up, along with Levn and the quiet Kilup trailing along side.

"Are you taking him to your world?" Avi asked.

Carson was all smiles, tears still dripping from his jaw. "Aye lass, we are."

"Are you g-going to m-make him b-better?" said Lavn.

"I'll bloody well try."

Avi moved closer to the litter, patting John's hand. "They're going to make you better, Mr. Sheppard."

John smiled. "I know."

"You'll visit us, right?"

John patted her hand back. "You bet."

The kids followed him to the edge of the small town, stopping with the rest of the curious villagers. They waved good-bye as he moved out of sight toward one of the three jumpers parked in a field. He was loaded into the middle jumper, set down on the floor for easier access. The textile shirt was cut away, an I.V. started and a military green blanket draped over him when he started to shake-- except he wasn't cold. He could feel the jumper spring to life, its hum, its warmth, and rolled his eyes up to see the land pull away and the window face open sky.

It was a short trip to the gate on the other side of a hill. The event horizon punched out in a fist of foam that collapsed into a shimmering puddle. The jumper slipped through. Atlantis filled the view screen when it slipped out.

Atlantis. Home. John was home. It should have been impossible. Was impossible. Except here he was. Home. He was home. John's heart beat so fast he could barely breathe. He tried to rise, lifted himself a couple of inches when he was pushed back down by Beckett.  
"Easy, lad. Take it easy, now."

John shook his head. "No, I wanna see. I wanna, I gotta... Atlantis. It's Atlantis." It was getting harder to breathe and he was shaking so bad it hurt.

"John!" Carson grabbed his face forcing eye contact. "John, you need to calm down, you're going to hyperventilate."

John couldn't calm down. He was home, and it should have been impossible.

Carson lowered John's head back onto the litter. "Damn it! Someone get me the oxygen...!"

John didn't hear the rest. His chest tightened, his ribs closing in until his lungs had no more room to take in air. Darkness slipped over his eyes until he was back in oblivion.

If this had been a dream, it had at least included home, and he could die a happy man.

TBC...

A/N: Nearing the end? I think not. This story is a long way from over.


	10. Here's Johnny, There's Johnny

A/N: Thanks again to all you reviewed. I knew you all would get a kick out of Carson being the first on the scene. And now, for what you've all been waiting for...

Ch. 9

Here's Johnny, there's Johnny...

Rodney tore off down the hall like his heels were on fire, going at a run he'd only ever demonstrated when something pissed, armed, or carnivorous (usually a combination of all three) was on his tail. He barely dodged passer-bys and managed to rebound off a few sending them colliding into walls or crashing to the floor, cursing his name in the distance.

"Dr. McKay!"

That one feminine voice was enough to penetrate his frenetic need to get to the infirmary. He skidded to a stop in time to avoid Teyla running toward him from the other way. She didn't stop but grabbed his arm, propelling him back into – not so much a run – but fast trot down the adjacent corridor. They met Ronon just as he was entering the infirmary.

"Took you guys long enough," he said, breathing easy. Maybe he had arrived early, or just liked showing off.

Rodney staggered to a stop, breathing hard while pointing over his shoulder. "Longer way to go. Besides, it's been a while." Enough said. Since Sheppard's disappearance, Rodney had been spending most of his time on Atlantis, in a lab, and sitting.

Strike that – _all_ of his time. He liked to say it was because he didn't trust anyone else to watch his back, Teyla and Ronon excluded. The truth he kept between himself and Heightmeyer.

It hurt to go off world. Didn't feel right, and it scared the hell out of him. If Lt. Colonel live-by-the-skin-of-his-teeth Sheppard could be casually scooped up by a dart, then anyone could.

"I was meditating," Teyla said. "And did not have my radio on."

Rodney threw his arms out wide. "But here we are." He clasped his hands behind his back to start rocking heel to toe. "So... we going in or what?"

Ronon flinched as though breaking from a trance. "Uh, yeah. Right." He waved his large paw toward the door. "Uh, Teyla, you wanna go first?"

McKay rolled his eyes. "Oh for... Please tell me you're not hesitating."

That earned him a trademark burn-through-steel Ronon scowl. "I was being polite. _Lady's first_ isn't just an earth custom, McKay."

With a sigh, Teyla brushed past the two men before the argument could be drawn out further, and led the way into the infirmary. Dr. Weir was already there standing several feet from a curtained-off corner that rippled with human-shaped shadows. Rodney stepped up beside her, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep them from fidgeting.

"So?" he asked.

Elizabeth had one arm folded across her stomach, her other resting on it, and her hand to her mouth so she could nibble on a nail. "Carson's still working on him."

"Have you seen him, yet?" Rodney asked next, eyes fixed on the curtain in anticipation for a wide enough part for a peek at what lay on the other side.

Elizabeth shook her head. They fell into a tense moment of silence watching the shadows shift and flow across the powder-blue curtains. Rodney's heart thudded and he started twitching his leg to siphon off the ever-growing energy. He had never been good at sitting still.

"This is," he began, but shook his head, unable to find just the right words to sum everything up.

"Surreal," Elizabeth said.

"Yeah."

"Impossible," said Ronon.

"Very."

"I believe," said Teyla, "_miracle_ would be an appropriate term."

"If you believe in such things." Truth be told, Rodney could find no better word. The Pegasus Galaxy was making it very hard to mock the spiritual, because Sheppard wasn't supposed to be alive. He'd been sucked up into a wraith dart, for crying out loud. Rodney had seen it, they had all seen it, and for two weeks after Rodney had wandered Atlantis in a haze of disbelief, forever expecting Sheppard to pop out of the nearest transporter or step through the gate with arms spread wide calling out with that insufferable grin of his, "I'm ho-ome!"

The weeks that followed were in a haze of anger. Rodney had been gradually succumbing to getting used to Sheppard's absence, and it had pissed him off. Felt too much like giving up on him, despite overwhelming evidence that stated loud and clear Sheppard was gone and never coming back.

Rodney had been too accepting of it. "What did Carson say?" he asked.

Elizabeth shrugged. "Not much, just that he needed to get him settled."

Rodney snorted. "I highly suspect Carson finds pleasure in leaving us hanging for long periods." It was hard forcing patience. Sheppard was supposed to be dead; now he wasn't. One would think McKay used to it by now, but this had been the mother of all Sheppard disappearances, the end all to end all. The one mission he wasn't meant to survive, since it had only been a matter of time before fortune decided to favor someone else, and somehow he did it.

Which begged the question, beyond what had happened to him – why was he alive? Rodney hated it, but it had to be asked. He gestured with a twirl of his finger to his upper back. "Did, uh, Carson mention anything about...?"

Elizabeth twitched as though finally realizing this for herself and then relaxed. "No, and he would have seen one with the medical scanner."

"Seen one what?" Teyla asked.

It was Ronon who replied in an all bitter, dead-pan sobriety. "Wraith tracker."

"Okay, then, any indication he might have been brainwashed...?"

"McKay!" Ronon snarled.

Rodney sighed with heavy exasperation. "Look, I'm not trying to put the Colonel down or anything, I'm just asking the hard questions now rather than try and avoid them just to bring them up later, anyways. He was taken by the wraith," his throat tightened making it hard to speak. "He shouldn't... he shouldn't have..." he couldn't say it. It felt wrong, and scared him, and...he just couldn't say it.

Ronon bowed his head, hiding his face behind a curtain of ropey hair. "Yeah, you're right. He shouldn't have."

Teyla rubbed her hands together, shoulders bunching around her neck as though she were cold. Rodney had never seen her this fidgety, even when sensing the wraith.

"I want to see him." Or hear her this agitated in a way that was verging on anger. Ronon lifted his head and placed his hand on her shoulder, calming her just a fraction.

Teyla tense, Ronon being the comforter, and Rodney able to keep himself from marching through the curtain, demanding answers-- yes, this was definitely many kinds of messed-up. They all went quiet, the hard questions left without an answer since no one wanted to put any further thought into it. One thing at a time, and right now, all that mattered was seeing John in the flesh.

The curtain skittered back, metal rods hissing over a metal pole.

And what thin flesh it was, sunken tight around the bones, pale to be almost white and translucent. Even from where he stood Rodney could see all the thin little veins like tiny rivers viewed at a distance. The ribs pressed parallel lines into the skin of Sheppard's chest and contour lines around his flanks that the flimsy hospital scrub couldn't hide. And the bruises... Crap, there were so many it was hard to tell where one began and the other ended, which were fresh and which were healing. He had a cast on his wrist, a sling on the same arm, and if there had been a beard it was gone now. He looked younger, more vulnerable, and incredibly breakable, especially with him lying partially on his side curled up like a little kid.

They all moved forward, slowly, like approaching something they'd never seen before and weren't confident about. Teyla was the first to break from that particular reverie, hurrying forward with an outstretched hand that she immediately pulled back. She looked uncertainly at Carson. "Is it...?"

Carson nodded. "Aye. We've got him sedated for now. Poor lad was so overcome he passed right out and I didn't want it happening again. Careful about the bruises, though. Some of them are right nasty."

Teyla went for Sheppard's whole wrist wrapping her fingers cautiously around it since it seemed like it wouldn't take much to snap it.

Now that Rodney was closer, he was able to make out the long, thin tube taped to the side of Sheppard's face, snaking up his nose to pump his stomach full of nutrients. Heart monitor steadily beeping, BP cuff inflating, nasal cannula – the usual paraphernalia letting everyone know Sheppard was alive and kicking. Maybe not kicking, but certainly alive.

"He feels too warm," Teyla said.

"That's because he's got a bit of a fever and then some. He's also got himself quite a collection of broken bones: ribs mostly, wrist obviously, collar-bone, even a crack to his shoulder blade and several cracks to the sternum. Heavy malnutrition as you can see. But this is what's got me concerned." He tugged down the wide collar of the scrub, then the bandages binding Sheppard's chest. Using the end of his penlight, Carson traced the bruises over John's breastbone.

Hand shaped, every one, all overlapping each other. "If you look closely enough, you can almost see the feeding mark, sort of like old scar tissue. But here's the real kicker." He rolled Sheppard enough for a better view of his back. Carson lifted the scrub and tugged the bandages. More hand-shaped bruises and a thin line of scar-tissue running perpendicular over Sheppard's protruding backbone were visible.

Rodney balked. His own spine twinged in sympathy because he couldn't even begin to imagine what it must have been like. "They... they fed through the back?"

Carson adjusted the bandage, shirt, and then Sheppard's sleeping position. "I imagine they can feed from the leg if they want to. The chest is just easier to get to. Scans don't reveal anything wrong with the spinal cord, but it's still got me cautious." He smoothed the blanket over Sheppard's body, like busy work, giving him an excuse to stick around.

And here Rodney had been ready to bawl Beckett out for what he'd assumed was an insouciant attitude. The way doctors could be so casual about describing someone's guts being torn out or a broken bone poking through the skin was another reason Rodney bristled when it came to the medical community. Doctors needed to be callous toward injuries. It was nothing personal, just how they dealt with blood, broken bones, and even death day after day. Rodney understood and even respected that, but some days the lack of reaction, especially if said doctor was a close friend, raked on his nerves.

Beckett, however, in a rather _undoctorly_ fashion, was hovering just as bad as the rest of them. He'd been the one to find Sheppard, after all, during a good-will mission to a village who had stumbled on a group of wraith followers and wraith slaves.

And since when did the wraith start utilizing slaves? Most of those slaves had been half-starved and too sick to move, which had to be disturbing in and of itself. Then, low and behold, Sheppard had been among the starved and sick.

Okay, so Teyla was right, it could only be referred to as a miracle.

Unless there was more to it. It seemed like it was time to return to the hard questions.

"Why would the wraith abandon that kind of a food supply and labor?" he said. "Not that I'm trying to sound cold-hearted here, but... that really was a lot of food to be passing up."

"I have heard," Teyla replied "of those who were assumed to be survivors of a downed wraith ship. Some, it was said, turned out to be wraith followers sent as spies. Others, who, as you said, claimed to have been used for labor."

"Aye," said Beckett, "but the wraith worshipers were weeded out from the slaves. At least the villagers think so."

Elizabeth perked. "And they are keeping them prisoner, right? The worshipers?"

"Aye, and a right healthy lot they are, too. Wasn't hard at all telling the two groups apart."

Elizabeth nodded. "We should send a team back to question them, and to make sure they weren't carrying transmitters."

"Already checked," Carson said. "Not a single one was. And they weren't keen on talking except to make threats."

"That could easily change," Ronon said, crossing his arms. Rodney swore the man did that just to get his muscles to bulge in an intimidating way.

Beckett sighed and shook his head. "I don't know. From what I heard, those followers can be bloody slick when they want to be. The colonel had told me about his run-in with that one during Ford's little fiasco. If they tell us anything it'll either be to kiss off or a well rehearsed lie."

Ronon smiled with a rather sadistic twinkle in his eye that he only ever got when given permission to wail on a suspect until answers resulted. "Never hurts to try."

"Except for the guy you're hurting," Rodney grunted under his breath. He had yet to look directly at anyone else, being too transfixed on Sheppard's corpse-like presence. Surreal had also been a good word choice, because even after being perpetually haunted by the expectation of seeing the colonel's face around every turn, Rodney's brain couldn't wrap itself around flesh and blood Sheppard lying right in front of him.

He wanted to reach out and take that skinny wrist into his own hand, feel solid bone and warm flesh, make his brain accept what was right in front of him contrary to what should have been. But a part of him really was afraid that any slight mishandling of that limb would snap it in two, so he refrained.

"I wouldn't mind hearing what they have to say," Elizabeth said, "even if it is a lie. We'll just believe the opposite of whatever they tell us if we have to. Right now, I'd at least like some idea of what was done to John. Once the SGC finds out he's back, they'll be demanding answers. And knowing them they'll want to get those answers themselves, which means they'll either send someone to ask questions or force us to sooner rather than later."

Beckett pursed his lips and pulled air in through his nose, letting it out slowly on a drawn out, "Aye... I'll have Kate brought in as soon as the colonel is awake. She needs to assess him. Which means, I'm afraid, that there will be no interaction with the colonel until we have a better understanding of what's going on in his head." He paled some. "Gah, there's no saying what those bastards did to him... beyond what we see. Some of those slaves practically broke down in tears if you so much as touched them. And the poor colonel..." whatever Carson had been about to say petered off, his mouth working but no words produced, probably because there were no words to describe it. McKay was certain the physician was just about to break into tears when he quickly recovered, composing himself by straightening and clearing his throat. "Another day and we would've been too late. Possibly even another hour."

Now that was a sobering thought. Miracle after miracle. Despite Sheppard's beliefs on the contrary and Rodney's own personal beliefs, someone up there liked the man.

"We'll probably have to restrict the colonel's movements," Elizabeth said, reluctantly, "until we know more."

"I doubt he'll be up and about in the near future." Carson looked at each of the three team-members in tandem giving them their own personal glare. "I mean it when I say you are to wait until my say-so to visit with him." His gaze lingered especially long on Rodney.

McKay took immediate umbrage. He wasn't stupid. Okay, maybe a little impatient – a lot impatient – and it was going to be hard holding back against the opportunity to talk to his friend. At the same, the prospect scared him. Like Carson had said, there was no saying what had been done to John, and Rodney was a little afraid to find out.

The end all to end all didn't necessarily have to involve death.

Still, Sheppard's mental state aside... Rodney crossed his arms indignantly, getting a little tired of Carson's insinuations. "Relax, Carson, I've come to learn the hard way that when you mean something, you mean something, or have we all forgotten the time the colonel gave me a black eye just because I was dropping by for a visit."

"You were leaning in two inches from his face, Rodney," Carson said just a tad too condescendingly for McKay's liking.

"Yes, well, be that as it may, I still learned a valuable lesson that day."

"No, you didn't," Ronon jumped in. "What about that time four months ago when he smashed his foot right into your..."

Rodney's heart skipped several beats and he managed to raise a rigid finger before Ronon could continue. "_Not_... talking about it! Remember?"

Ronon smirked. "Like it was yesterday."

Rodney sighed. "I learned my lesson, all right? Like hell I'm going to be sending Sheppard over whatever edge he maybe standing two centimeters away from. You say stay away, so I will stay away. No questions and no begging otherwise."

Carson clasped him on the shoulder. "Glad to hear it. Just remember, you'll be able to talk with him eventually, just not right away, not until we know more."

"In the meantime," Elizabeth said, again with reluctance, "maybe a guard should be posted, just in case."

Rodney snorted. "In case what? Sheppard manages to crawl his way to the command center? The man _looks _like he can barely stand."

"Still," Elizabeth said gnawing her lip thoughtfully. "Just until we know more."

McKay could practically feel his blood pressure starting to rise. The hard questions had needed asking but this felt like pushing it. "I find that rather unfair to the colonel."

"But she's right," said Ronon. "Wraith could have done anything to him."

"I still don't like it," Rodney huffed.

Teyla placed a consoling hand on his shoulder. "You are not the only one."

-------------------------

Elizabeth slid into the seat behind her desk and lifted the lid of the laptop, typing in the commands that connected the computer to communications. Light from the event horizon rippled like real water just along the edge of the floor.

General Landry's face appeared on the screen. Elizabeth hadn't expected him to answer so quickly. Neither was she surprised. SGC members coming back from the dead had become commonplace, but it was still weird as hell, whether someone was un-ascended or left behind by the wraith. In this case, 'weird' had nothing to do with it. A potential security breach did, and that made Elizabeth nauseas. Of all the people to be a danger to the base in that very way, for it to be John Sheppard felt like a physical oxymoron.

"General," Elizabeth greeted.

"Dr. Weir," Landry replied. "So what's this I hear that the former and presumed dead military commander of your base was found alive among former wraith slaves and worshipers... and since when did wraith start doing the slavery thing?" She had the gist of the situation written in report form sent ahead in order to skip most of the preliminaries.

The latter was actually a good question, but a moot point at the moment. "Just as you heard, general," Elizabeth said. "It was during a good-will run to a village we have a small trade agreement with. Beckett was the one who found him – with the slaves," she emphasized. "I had Dr. Beckett compile a quick report on what he saw. Nothing fancy but it should, at least, give a better idea of what's going on. I'm having it sent to you now."

"And what of Lt. Colonel Sheppard? Have you had a chance to talk to him?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "No. Carson had to sedate him, said he was getting too worked up over being home. A medical report is also being sent."

Landry leaned back in his chair and Elizabeth thought she could almost hear it squeak. "Happy as I am to hear that Sheppard's back, you are aware of how this is going to be viewed."

Elizabeth clasped her hands on the desk-stop to keep from picking at the loose thread of her shirt. "Painfully aware."

"That's good. Because the military commander of Atlantis taken by the wraith only to be released is going to look pretty damn suspicious to the IOA."

Elizabeth's spine stiffened. "So it's probably a definite that someone is going to be sent in to investigate."

"Actually," Landry said, leaning forward, "with the Daedalus about to head back to you all and, considering the time it takes to get to Pegasus, they may just settle for having someone already present look into the matter. The only thing they're going to worry about is Sheppard being a possible security risk, which means getting inside his head to see what was done. And I know you have an expedition psychologist. They'll more than likely just have her handle the matter."

Elizabeth certainly hoped so. She doubted Sheppard would handle being forced into any kind of an interrogation very well, and Kate would know how to manage the matter all while keeping the interest of John's mental health in mind.

"But I should remind you," Landry continued, "and by remind I mean _warn_ – of the IOA's little fluke of being a paranoid bunch of asses. If they don't feel any of the results conclusive, they may start pushing things in a more unfavorable direction. They might still go with sending someone, let your psychologist deal matters until their own psychologist shows up on your doorstep. Not a definite but, knowing them, I wouldn't dismiss the possibility."

Elizabeth inclined her head. "I'm not about to; I just hope it doesn't have to come to that. Sheppard isn't going to like it."

"And I don't blame him. Keep me updated on his progress. If we can keep the information flowing, it might retain the IOA on a leash."

"I understand," Elizabeth said. Communications were cut and the gate shut down. Elizabeth eased back into her chair, unclasping her hands to drum her nails on the desk.

It had only been three weeks ago that a funeral had been held for Sheppard, and two days after Caldwell placed as the new commanding officer. The Daedalus had been given a new captain, like a seal of approval to all the change.

Elizabeth wanted to laugh. Cry, too, but chuckle out loud even more. She settled for a quiet snicker. They should have known better. They should have realized from the moment Sheppard's heart was stopped to save his life and then restarted that Lt. Colonel John Sheppard could die, but that didn't mean he would stay dead.

TBC...

A/N: Obviously isn't a dream. And again, just to remind you, this story is far from over.


	11. No Place Like Home

A/N: Once again, thank you everyone who read and reviewed. I apologize that I don't respond much to each review (if I manage to respond at all). Time, incredibly slow dial-up Internet (really, really slow depending on the site) and someone always needing the phone makes it difficult. I will also admit to forgetfulness (hangs head in shame). I do appreciate greatly all your reviews, and do read each and every one. They motivate me greatly and always brighten my day. So, again, thank you.

Ch. 10

No Place Like Home

John thought it a little odd that Morticia would provide him something softer to lie on beyond blankets. Maybe it was a reward. He had been nothing but a good little human pet being too drained to act otherwise. He would have preferred it if she locked Vee'rana in a tiny little closet. The girl wouldn't shut up.

Except the girl was supposed to be dead, neck snapped like a brittle twig. Unless that had been a dream. John didn't know any more. His memories kept trying to coalesce and he couldn't separate facts from dreams from wishful thinking.

The humming grew louder. John opened his eyes.

Vee'rana's chalk-white face and filed teeth filled every inch of his vision. "Time to play." She reared back with a shriek and slammed her hand into his chest. Pain consumed him. He arched, screaming his lungs empty.

----------------------------------

Beckett massaged his face to stretch the skin that felt a little tight around his eyes. He'd run a few more scans of Sheppard's body and brain for a more thorough search of any potential anomalies. Thus far, he was happy to say they could rule out any chemical or mechanical alterations to John's body; no devices in his brain or odd chemicals in his blood. Just lack of proper nutrients, anemia, and a loss of bone density.

The loss of bone mass gave Carson the suspicion that Sheppard may have been the guest of a wraith storage unit. Exploration of a crashed hive ship had produced plenty of stored bodies for Beckett to study. Bone loss had been prevalent in those bodies still fresh enough to perform autopsies on. Nothing major, but there was to be no sparring, even light, for the colonel until it was remedied.

It was the multiple feedings and restorations that had Carson worried. There were still traces of enzyme floating in the colonel's blood, nothing to be overly concerned about except for the fact that it was having no apparent effect on him what so ever. Even that deteriorating amount still in his body should have at least given him a stronger grip when he had latched on to Carson's sleeve. He supposed the enzyme could be the reason the colonel wasn't suffering any kind of kidney or heart failure, but once those traces were flushed from his body, delayed reactions could very well begin to manifest. He was just going to have to keep a close watch on the poor pilot.

Humming floated toward and then away from Carson's office. He smiled. Megan Malone, two weeks fresh off the Daedalus, was lucky she had such a lovely singing voice or many a patient would have chewed her out by now. One patient, a young marine most likely harboring a secret crush, had actually started making requests for particular songs.

The humming drifted away until silence resettled.

Only to be immediately broken by familiar screaming. Carson launched from his chair into a run to the curtained off corner of the infirmary. He threw the curtain back to see John arching off the bed shrieking every last molecule of air from his body. It was a desperate scream, a combination of terror and helplessness. Carson grabbed the pilot by the shoulders, pinning him down. The monitor beside him stuttered and wailed in alarm for a heart that was beating too fast.

"John! Come on, lad, wake up! I need you to wake up!"

Megan joined Carson in trying to restrain the colonel. Sheppard's back slammed onto the bed, then his body lurched to the side, skinny arms flailing and clawing as he tried to get away. The screaming wouldn't stop.

"Colonel! John!" Carson pleaded. He grabbed both sides of Sheppard's face to pull it in close to his own. "John, look at me! Look at me and listen. It's Carson, lad. Dr. Beckett. Come on, colonel, look at me!"

John's clouded hazel eyes blinked until the animal panic faded as he focused on Beckett's face. Carson nodded, smiling in both relief and assurance. "That's it, John. Concentrate, now. Focus. You're all right, you're safe, but I need you to calm down. I don't think your poor heart's too keen on working overtime the way it is."

An oxygen mask was placed against the colonel's face by Megan, making him flinch. It took a moment for his breathing to go from ragged gulps to ragged stutters, the monitor from shrieking to rapid beeps. Sheppard's shaking hand reached up fisting a wad of Carson's sleeve. He started pulling himself up, reaching with the other hand to cling to the shoulder of Beckett's lab coat.

"Make her stop," he begged. "Make her stop. She won't stop. I just want her to stop. I wanna sleep. Make her stop."

Carson grabbed John by both thin arms and eased him back onto the bed. "Who, John?"

"That little bitch," he spat. "She won't stop! She won't leave me alone! She won't…I can hear her…I can still hear her except she's dead. She's supposed to be dead, but I can still hear her. Why isn't she dead? I saw her die; she's supposed to be dead. I bowed to the queen, I bowed, she promised!"

Beckett rubbed John's arm lightly, avoiding the bruises. "It's all right, John, she's gone." Which was truth enough, whoever _she_ was. "You're safe, John. No one's going to hurt you."

John sucked in an unsteady breath, the twitching muscles of his arms relaxing against his will as the energy drained fast from him. "She won't stop... always humming... she won't stop."

Carson looked up at Megan. Megan returned the look, slack-jawed with horror.

"Stop... make... make her... stop..." Sheppard panted. His eyes rolled up into the back of his head and he promptly passed out. Yet even passed out, Carson could still feel fine muscle tremors under the thin skin. He pulled his stethoscope onto his ears and listened to John's steadying heart, then shifted to his back for the breathing. Everything sounded fine, even the mild congestion that hadn't gotten any worse. Carson took the thermometer handed to him and pressed it into John's ear. The digital reading was 100, which explained a lot.

Carson checked the I.V., glad to see it was still in place despite all the flailing about. The panic attack would set John back. Carson wouldn't be surprised if he ended up sleeping for seventy-two hours straight.

"Well," Beckett said, "looks like he's worn himself down for the rest of the night." He didn't like it, but in a way it was a necessary evil. Natural sleep was better for the body than sedated sleep, and the only chemicals Carson wanted in John's body were the antibiotics. Those scratches on his back had been inflamed.

Beckett looked up at Megan and was a little taken back by her trembling lip and terrified stare.

"Dr. Beckett, I am so sorry. I had no idea my humming was bothering him..."

Carson patted the air with one hand. "Calm down, now, lass. It's not your fault. There's no telling what'll set him off and the last thing I expected was for it to be a little singing. Probably a good thing you weren't whistling." A poor attempt at lightening the mood, but it at least had gotten Megan to relax a little. He didn't need his nurses nervous, concentrating more on tip-toeing around the colonel than doing their jobs. Not that he blamed them. Sheppard had gotten right bloody scary during several delusional states in the past.

What Carson definitely didn't want was the greener nurses panicking and slapping restraints on the man. Not what Sheppard needed after spending quality time in a wraith cocoon. He would just break his wrist in the struggle, even weak as he was.

Beckett rubbed the bony shoulder looking sharp enough to poke through the blanket. "We'll need to set a watch. Mandy and Alicia since they have the night rotation. They're also good when it comes to the more heavily fevered patients. And tell them that under no circumstances is the colonel to be restrained..." Carson sighed and rubbed his face. What he needed was for Sheppard to wake up so they could obtain a better understanding of what to expect from him. "He's weak enough not too put up too much of a fuss but they need to be careful how they handle him." He was deeply starting to consider sedating John after all, nothing heavy, just to help him relax.

"Doctor?" Megan said when Carson had trailed off for the second time.

Beckett sighed again and caved to temptation. "I think I'll give him a nip of something to keep him calm," he relented, "just in case." He hated it, but neither could he take any chances.

----------------------------------------

Ki'vana hadn't come. Vee'rana wasn't humming. Because Vee'rana was dead, wasn't she? Yeah, John was pretty sure she was. It was kind of hard to dream the rather vivid and sharply resounding snap of someone's neck being broken. Except... he'd heard humming. But now - now he heard beeping.

John opened his eyes to soft turquoise light brighter than what he was used to. He blinked his eyes until they finally focused, then he squinted them at the ridged wall that seemed to be rippling. No, not rippling... just moving, like cloth, like a curtain. He lifted his head an inch off the pillow and squinted harder. It was a curtain flowing in a draft of warm air, shadows sliding across its surface. Sheppard watched in mild fascination, wondering if the curtain opened up to a stage. After everything else he'd seen on the hive ship, he wouldn't be all that surprised.

Was he even on the hive ship? He remembered seeing Carson, more than once, but that could have been a dream...

The curtain was swept aside fast, metal hissing on metal. John flinched away smashing his back into the metal rails of the bed. Pain shot through his body that made him arch and groan.

"Colonel Sheppard!"

Hands grabbed his arms: cool, thin-fingered, long-nailed. John yelped and jerked again, slamming both his back and his elbow into the metal, doubling the pain that pulsed to the front of his body. The hands tried to pull him forward, John tried to pull away, but the hands were stronger.

"Leave me alone you bitch!" he snarled.

The hands released him abruptly and his assailant backed up a step. John looked up at her, all ready to spit in her face, and gaped in shock. The tall, slender young woman with the oval face, brown hair tied in a pony-tail, and dressed in light pink scrubs was definitely not Vee'rana or any other worshiper John recalled. And there was only one group he knew of that dressed in pink scrubs.

"I'm sorry," Sheppard gasped. "I'm sorry, I thought you were... I'm so sorry."

The nurse's tense body uncoiled and her expression of baffled hurt melted into sympathy. When she reached out, John cringed back. He didn't know why. She was a nurse, for crying out loud, a proud member of the "do not play God and do no harm" society. But all John's brain had registered were hands - hands equaling hurt, hands equaling bad.

The nurse's hand stopped and then withdrew. "It's all right," she said with a reassuring smile. "I didn't mean to startle you like that. I'm just going to fetch Dr. Beckett, all right?" She didn't wait for a reply when she darted from John's enclosed space.

Sheppard hunkered down deeper under the blanket. So Carson hadn't been a dream, neither was coming home.

Home. He was home. John rolled his eyes and turned his head taking in his surroundings. Ancient construction, Ancient tech, earth tech, gurneys, heart monitors, I.V. soft beds, warm blankets, water... John felt something tug at his cheek and reached up tracing his fingers along the smooth, plastic tube curving up into his nose and down his throat. Food. He felt another tube resting beneath his nose – oxygen, clean air. He lowered his hand to grip the solid front of the scrub-shirt covering his body. Man-made clothes. Then he stared out into the infirmary at the people passing by.

People, humans, wraith-haters.

The heart monitor betrayed his increasing heart-rate, his breathing climbing with it. He tightened his grip on his shirt, pressing the soft fibers against his skin. With the other hand he tried to push himself up, but could barely rise a few inches when the limb gave out. He tried again, then again. He wanted to see everything, soak in every sight, smell, and texture. The third attempt left him breathless and too weak to try again, so he reached out with a shaking hand to grip the cool metal of the bed rail. Smooth, clean, human-made metal. A breathy chuckle convulsed in his chest and moisture burned in his eyes.

He was _home_. Freakin' home!

"Colonel Sheppard?"

John startled and looked up. He smiled, open mouthed tasting salt water that tickled down his face to settle on his lips. His quiet chuckling turned into quiet laughter that convulsed his whole body. "Hey doc."

Beckett didn't look as giddy as John felt. In fact, he looked worried, even a little scared. "John?"

Laughter became weeping that John couldn't help. Home. Home, home, _home_. He shouldn't be home. He should be starving on a hive ship and about to be dragged to Morticia's den for another petting/feeding. Home had become a dream, an impossible goal, a whole lot of wishful thinking that wasn't supposed to happen.

And yet, here he was. Home again, home again spiting the impossible.

"Home," Sheppard sobbed, pressing the side of his face into the pillow.

Carson's features softened. He grabbed a stool perched outside the curtain and pulled it up to sit, leaning forward to start rubbing John's arm in a careful but rather soothing way. "Aye, John, you're home. But you need to calm down. Last time you got this excited you hyperventilated and passed out, and you're too weak for any more of that tripe. It's not doing your heart any favors. Can you calm down for me, lad?"

John nodded but it was easier said than done. He swallowed hard and forced himself to gulp in steadier breaths. His heart, however, refused to quit pounding and his body to quit shaking. In fact, he was shaking harder, every muscle trying to lock but quivering to pieces instead. Beckett noticed and stood, moving his hand from Sheppard's arm to his lower back and rubbing there.

"Easy, John, easy. It's all right, you're all right. Just breathe for me - in, out, in, out – nice and slow if you can. You need the oxygen mask?"

John shook his head, pulling air through his one unobstructed nostril, then releasing that air through his mouth until his heart-rate finally started to settle down. He coughed a few times when that air tickled something in his lungs. Carson put the straw of a plastic cup within reach of his mouth. John took a few sips easing the itch in his throat, but his lungs were still another matter.

"You're a wee bit congested," Beckett explained. "Nothing too serious, though. Hopefully it'll clear up soon." He pulled the water away before John had a chance to finish it off, and then sat back down, slapping his thighs with a sigh. "Better?"

John nodded.

"Would you like to sit up a bit?"

John nodded again. Beckett stood to position John on his back. Not directly. A thin pillow was placed beneath Sheppard's shoulder keeping pressure off his upper spine. When the colonel was settled, the head of the bed was raised giving John an unobstructed view of his surroundings. Carson plopped back onto his stool, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees and his hands clasped.

"So..." he began in that overly cheery way of one trying to avoid small talk while reluctant to jump into the real matter. "I suppose you'd like to know what betrayals to expect from your body."

John nodded. Right now, Carson could belt out some Scottish drinking song on a broken note and John would bob his head to it, just content to be able hear that brogue again.

"Well, you've got yourself quite the collection of bruises for starters. Three cracked ribs, two broken, cracked collar-bone, crack in your cheek-bone, cracked sternum and one on your shoulder-blade, broken wrist, bit of bruising to your spine but thankfully no swelling, some cuts that have gotten infected but antibiotics are taking care of that. You were dehydrated from the fever but that's been dealt with. My biggest concerns are the malnutrition and decreased bone density. And the, um," Carson unclasped his hands to gesture vaguely in the general direction of John's chest. "Um... multiple... feedings, of course." He cleared his throat uneasily, twice. "Anyways, needless to say a newborn kitten has more get up and go than you, and that may be for a while longer. I don't think I need to tell you how your body's been through hell and back -" he gaped for a moment, ready to say something else, and John was fairly certain as to what that 'something' was.

What happened to you? What did they do to you? How is it you're still alive?

John knew why he was alive. What he didn't know was why he was home.

Carson snapped his jaw shut with an audible click, and then furrowed his brow. "Do you have any questions? Anything you'd like to know? Here I've been babbling away over the obvious... anything?"

John nodded. He had the perfect one. "What time is it?"

Carson blinked in surprise. "Uh, time?" he glanced at his watch. "Two-fifteen pm."

John's lips twitched in a brief smile that he quickly dropped for his next question. "How long... was I gone?" It was draining just to talk.

"Two months," Beckett said. "You've been gone two months."

John's heart thudded hard. "T-two?"

Carson nodded soberly. "Aye. A month and four and a half weeks to be exact. Elizabeth wanted to look for you, but it was too bloody dangerous and we had no idea where to even begin..."

"I know," John said with a languid blink. "Kind of figured that... the moment I woke up in the... cell."

Beckett leaned in another inch to tug the blankets up to John's shoulders. "I think that's enough questions for today. You need to rest."

John reached out as far as he could get his heavy arm to move and snagged the cuff of Carson's lab coat. Carson might be finished, but Sheppard wasn't. "My team?" It was all he had energy left to get out.

Beckett stopped fussing, sat back, and smiled. "They're all fine, lad. All bloody ecstatic to have you back."

John nodded and sighed a long, placid breath. "Good. 'S good." He couldn't fight sleep any longer and didn't want to try. His eyes slid shut as he felt the bed lower and the pillow adjusted more comfortably under his shoulder. A brief touch to his shoulder made him flinch, though he knew it was Carson and that Carson would never hurt him.

------------------------------

Voices, mumbling in a low drone. They were coming for him - the worshipers, the wraith, to hurt, to feed. John fought to open his eyes so he could be ready for them, to face them like a man, the only act of defiance he had left to him. His eyelids finally cooperated in sliding open to two blurred figures three feet from his bed. The figure in white did a double take then approached. John's body reacted even while his brain continued to adjust. He pulled back, hitting the rail, and his hands went straight into covering his chest. The figure halted, raising both hands innocently. A few quick blinks to clear the sight revealed a very surprised and troubled Carson.

"Easy John! It's all right, it's just me."

Relief was immediate, easing John's decrepit muscles out of their coil and calming his heart down. He looked past Carson to the second figure. A woman, a woman he knew with blond hair – Kate Heightmeyer. She smiled at him as though Sheppard's reaction hadn't even registered.

Carson lowered his hands and approached more slowly. "You all right, colonel?"

John nodded. "Yeah. I just... yeah, I'm good."

Carson nodded in return, then positioned John onto his back so he could raise the head of the bed. "Sorry about spooking you. You need anything? Water? Feeling any pain or discomfort?"

John had to think about that one. There were aches, but nothing even remotely verging on pain. Carson always did know how to dish out the good stuff. "Water."

Beckett handed him the cup. The water vibrated in John's quaking hand as he brought the straw to his lips. He barely kept his grip on it when he handed it back to Carson. "So what's up for today?" he asked, his eyes going straight back to Heightmeyer. He already knew why she was here, knew what was going on, had known without actually having to think about it, and that it had been coming, and still felt his guts start to knot in increasing discomfort.

"Well," Carson said. "What are you up for?"

The curtain had been pulled open all the way. Someone walking by out of his peripheral and it provoked John to jump and snap his head around. "I don't know." He looked back at Carson, flicking his gaze between him and Heightmeyer. Kate's presence simultaneously pissed him off and frightened him. It meant he was going to have to talk. Yeah, he knew he would have to eventually; it just felt too soon. He still hadn't even figured out why Morticia had let him go, if it had been part of some plot to find Atlantis – find earth – through him. Except that didn't sound right since he'd been ripe for the mental taking. She could have just invaded his brain and pulled the information from him with little resistance, so that couldn't be it...

"Colonel?" Carson said.

John twitched. He hadn't even realized he'd been spacing out. "Do I need to talk now?"

Kate stepped forward. "Not if you don't want to. I'm just here if you feel like talking, about whatever you want."

John furrowed his brow. "Don't you need to find out if I'm a security risk?"

"Are you?" Kate asked. John was about to jump to the conclusion that Heightmeyer was messing with him, except her very sincere expression was telling him otherwise.

He shook his head reluctantly. He was having a hard time straightening everything out in his head, his memories jumping at him rather than flowing in chronological order. But he was pretty damn certain he hadn't given anything away. Morticia had been more keener on making him suffer than making him talk. _That_ he recalled clear as day thanks to the twisted irony of it. "No, I didn't say anything. She didn't want to know anything."

"She?" Kate nonchalantly prompted.

"Mortish... the queen. She," John chuckled, feeling oddly giddy and incredibly confused. "She was weird." But she had known what she was doing. John's mind jumped like a broken record, over and over, to Anja being fed on, John bowing to the queen, Vee'rana's neck breaking. He choked on his own giggling, twisting the hem of the blanket in his hand.

He'd bowed to the queen, by choice. Didn't that make him a traitor?

"Colonel Sheppard?" Slight fingers touched his arm, the contact jolting as electricity. He jumped, pulling back in a shuddering cringe, pressing his arm protectively to his chest.

Kate pulled her hand away, looking contrite. "Sorry. I'm sorry, John..."

"She never interrogated me," he stated. He'd bowed but he'd never talked, so he couldn't be a traitor. Except she had been gearing up to interrogating him, weakening him to be more open or at least too out of it to realize what he was saying. Except... she hadn't and John didn't understand that. There'd been the attack, then the escape, then she left without ever interrogating him... why? Because they'd been found before she had a chance to return? Maybe, but it didn't feel right. The queen could have just taken him with her.

It didn't make sense. John shook his head. "I don't – I don't know why." He looked at Carson, then at Kate. "Should I be worried about that?"

Carson and Kate exchanged a blatantly concerned look.

"If she didn't interrogate you," Kate said, but it was a hesitant reply, "then... I wouldn't worry too much," she finished with a smile.

Like hell. John stiffened as much as his weakened body could. "But she was going to, she said so. Then she leaves me behind? Why the hell would she do that? She kept me alive. Why would she keep me alive to let me go? What if this is part of some big freakin' plan? What if I've been implanted? She could be tracking me back to Atlantis right now!" He pushed against the bed trying to rise higher. His heart started to pound, the monitor said as much, and it was getting hard to breathe. "Doc, you've gotta... gotta scan me. You've gotta..."

Carson placed his hands on John's shoulders only to snatch them back at John's violent start. "Colonel, John, I already did. You haven't been implanted, there's no foreign chemical in your system except lingering enzyme and your brain scans were clean."

John shook his head. "No, there has to be something. Maybe something you can't see. I was out of it a lot; they could have done something." He trailed off when Carson injected something into his I.V., and his heart rate shot through the roof. "What are you doing? What is that?"

"It's all right, lad, just a little something to help you relax. Remember what I told you about getting worked up?"

John curled his fingers into the blanket until his nails bit through the cloth into his palm. "Carson, that wraith bitch let me go and I have no freakin' idea why. She had plenty of opportunities to do who knows what to me just so I'd end up back here so she could follow me or... or _spy_ through me or something, because she'd kind of given me the impression that I'd never see home again and yet here I am. Something's wrong, Carson. There's got to be something going on because she wouldn't have just let me go like that otherwise..."

Except, maybe, to prevent him from ending up in the hands of the other queens. He wouldn't hold it passed Morticia. Neither could he take the chance.

Carson sighed pinching the bridge of his nose. "I don't know what to tell you, colonel. I did test after test and found nothing to warrant suspicion. We've been waiting until you were awake enough to talk with us to determine if you might have been mentally manipulated in some way..."

John perked up. "Maybe I was. Maybe there's some kind of trigger that'll make me betray all of you."

"Okay, now you're just grasping at straws," Carson admonished.

"Oh come on, doc! After all the crazy crap we've seen in this galaxy, you can't possibly deny it's possible. I'm a freakin' security risk..."

"And we've considered that and taken the necessary precautions. Look, colonel, we talked to both the worshipers and slaves you were found with. The slaves told us that the hive ship had been under attack and the queen had moved them all onto a planet and left them in the cave. The worshipers keep going on and on about the queen coming back for them, but it's been four days coming up on five since we found you and no one has come back for anyone. Hive ships have not been detected on the long-range sensors and you haven't acted strangely except for reacting to a few nightmares. Colonel, not that I'm one to jump to conclusions, but I don't think the queen releasing you was part of any master plan. I think she just couldn't take everyone with her, you included. Maybe she planned to return, maybe not. Either way... You're safe, colonel. If something _is_ going on, then we'll help you figure it out. But until we do you need to remain calm or you're going to set yourself back. You're home, lad. You're home and safe. Just focus on that for now."

John didn't want to, not if he was a risk to Atlantis. But Carson was right. If there was something altered about him, something hidden, they wouldn't know until it happened. So, in other words and as much as John kept wanting to deny it, there was nothing he could do about it, not yet.

The medication started taking effect relaxing John's muscles while his mind continued to tumble over itself. He wasn't going to be stupid enough to underestimate Morticia.

"I'm still a security risk," he said.

"We'll be the judges of that," Carson replied, then slowly exhaled. "Well, I think we've sufficiently worked you up and worn you down, which we didn't mean to. You should rest up a bit..."

"I'm fine," and he sure as hell didn't want to do any more sleeping, except his body was telling him otherwise. "I don't... I don't want to..."

"I know," Carson said softly. "Just a bit of a nap and I'll be close by to wake you if... you know."

John nodded, but he still didn't want to sleep. He looked up at Carson. "You know, I kind of haven't seen my team yet. They been by at all?"

Carson grimaced slightly. "Once or twice, while you were under. We thought it best to wait a bit so as not to overwhelm you."

"Can I see them?"

"After you've rested, and probably not all at once. I'll arrange something."

John felt his insides shrink at the fact that he was so weak he couldn't even meet with three people at the same time. There was a time it would have pissed him off. He would have preferred it in place of the constant fear gnawing at every little aspect of his condition and mind.

He was just so damn tired of being afraid.

TBC...


	12. Game Plan

A/N: Because I know how much waiting sucks... a treat. I will now be posting twice a week. The beta'ing is far enough ahead that I feel safe in doing so, although it's subject to change should I catch up with the unbeat'd chapters. I don't want the editing of this story rushed through as so much of it kept trying to give me trouble.

Oh, and someone had asked how long the story was. I kept meaning to reply in the author's notes to let everyone know, but kept forgetting to. Now that I remember - it's thirty chapters in all.

Ch. 11

Game Plan

It had taken a year and the loss of Ford before Sheppard finally graced Kate with his presence, opening up – sort of – about having to kill Sumner. It hadn't been an in-depth, soul-bearing, emotional breakthrough that had shoved Sheppard down the path toward mental health, but it had gotten him to set one foot down on that path and cleaned a few bones from the closet. The heart to heart had taken place on a balcony per his request, had lasted about twenty-five minutes, and purged John of enough burdens to finally get eight hours of sleep rather than five.

It was that day that Kate realized to take whatever the man gave and to do it the way he wanted to give it. Psyche evaluations were sometimes mandatory, so she allowed leniency when it came to his evasions. He would distract her with abrupt changes in subject; she would let him. Then, when the session was over, she opened the door for him to talk to her whenever he – _he_, not anyone else – wanted.

And it worked. Sometimes there was a bit of sacrifice to it, but it worked. She once walked with him as he wandered the halls of Atlantis at two am, chatting about mundane matters that surreptitiously drifted to more tender problems. Sheppard had stumbled his awkward way through about losing men and obsessing over the "what might have beens". Kate had listened and offered points to ponder over, going quiet to let him think. He had escorted her to her room before returning to his own, and the next day Kate had heard on the grapevine that Sheppard had done a very odd thing – he had slept in.

Sometimes it wasn't a matter of the right questions, just of the right time, place, and a lot of patience-- which was why her new role as the IOA watch dog was seriously pissing her off.

"I'm telling you now, Carson," Kate said as soon as the door to Beckett's office slid closed, "I am _not_ holding any mandatory sessions with him. I understand the urgency to ensure he's not a security risk, but pushing the matter isn't going to tell us anything. It will only make him retreat more." She eased into the chair on the other side of the desk as Carson settled into his own seat.

"Oh, I've no doubts there," Carson said. "At least, we have the bloody fortune of the IOA's lack of presence. As far as they're concerned, what they don't know all of can't hurt them. I say take all the time you need. If the colonel's compromised, then it's in a way to keep us from knowing about it until it's made manifest. And, right now, he's too bloody weak to be a danger to so much as a wee fly."

Beckett leaned forward folding his arms on top of the metallic surface of the desk. "So, bottom line. You have, at least, a notion of what we need to do to help him? I may not have your expertise, but I damn well know having a panic attack over a wee bit of humming is some pretty good incentive to worry."

"Control," Kate stated without preamble. "He needs to have some sense of control. Don't leave him out of any decision-making process that involves him, even the ones that don't allow for options. Don't exclude him and don't fight him on anything."

Carson's mouth twisted wryly. "Even if that includes him walking around when he's not ready?"

Kate lifted her shoulders helplessly. "Even if he insists on walking around Atlantis. Not that it necessarily will or has to come to that. He's a smart man. And contrary to the popular belief of some, he does have good common sense. He can get restless fast, yes, but he wouldn't do anything that would jeopardize himself and, in turn, the expedition. He takes his position as military CO very seriously. Just look at how he reacted when he realized he could be a security risk. He'll do what needs to be done but he also needs a sense of freewill while doing it. Control would have been the first thing taken from him on that hive ship."

Beckett nodded in sage agreement. "Aye, and used against him. Those wraith can be right bloody slick when you're not looking. Alright then – control. That gives us something to start with I suppose. What I'm most concerned about right now is what might send him into a tizzy. The colonel can be a dangerous bugger when feeling threatened. He doesn't seem to like touching much."

"Definitely," Kate said. "Your staff and anyone visiting with him need to be made aware of that. You said you suspected he was fed on multiple times from both the front and back so the chest and spinal region will be the most heavily off-limits." As she spoke, she also analyzed. She would need to outline a plan that would reintroduce Sheppard to touch – humming, too, it seemed, and who knew what else. "I also noticed he seemed a little jumpy when people walked by, but he should get over that on his own. Although, I'd make a lot of noise before approaching him."

Carson grinned. "Already figured that one out a long time ago."

Kate took a long, deep, lung-cleansing breath and let it out slowly. "Other than that, it's all a matter of trial and error. I'll need your help in being my eyes and ears, take note of any other reactions to any other form of stimuli."

"Wouldn't it be easier to just ask him what happened? Not in detail, just enough to have an idea?"

Kate frowned ruefully, furrowing her brow. "That still feels like pushing him." She leaned forward resting her elbows on the armrests of the chair. "He also seemed... _confused_ to me, like he was in shock. I don't think it was a good idea the way we confronted him today, even with all that we were able to learn. If we confront him even more directly like you suggest, I have no doubts anything he has to say is going to come out sounding like incoherent rambling. He needs time to process and get his thoughts in at least a semblance of order before telling us anything. He may even just tell us on his own without us asking, which would be the preferable way to go. But that may or may not happen. I want to plan a way to help him open up in a manner that's comfortable in case that doesn't happen, even if we have to get the story in bits and pieces."

The plan was followed by another ponderous nod from Carson, who then exhaled on a drawn-out breath. "This is different from anything else, isn't it." It was a statement, not a question.

"I would say so, yes," Kate replied. She had seen a good amount of traumatized people and although Sheppard was on a higher level, his reactions, thus far, were not unfamiliar. That did not mean all trauma was to be handled the same. Sheppard's current mental state was not unique. What had brought it about was. This meant there would come a point when textbook handling would have to be thrown out the window.

Some day Kate was going to have to buckle down and write that book on how to deal with the delicate psyche of the cannibalized and the restored wraith victim.

Beckett released another breath, this one sharp through pursed lips. "How do we handle his team? Have them draw lots to see who visits first or go about it more academically and pick by who would be a more logical choice?"

"I vote for Teyla," Kate said. "I know it sounds biased, but she has better control when it comes to reactions, is open minded, and she's good at remaining calm, which I know is an understatement. She's also good at making small talk when the need arises. Ronon... not so much. Rodney I want to talk with personally since the colonel's absence had hit him the hardest. I'm afraid John's return might have the same affect but with different outcomes." McKay's manner of mourning had involved a lot of anger – anger at himself, his team members, the expedition, Elizabeth, the Pegasus Galaxy in general, but, most of all, the colonel himself as though anger would prevent Rodney from feeling any of the hurt of losing a friend.

What had Kate concerned was whether Rodney would try to vent that anger on the colonel. Maybe, maybe not. Maybe the anger had been completely forgotten as soon as McKay was told Sheppard was still alive. But there would be other issues; issues McKay would need to work through or, at least, make known to himself before visiting with Sheppard. In turn, Kate wanted to make sure McKay was made completely and inarguably aware of John's current state of mind. It wasn't going to be pretty if Rodney ended up panicking over John panicking.

She would talk to each team member individual, but it was Rodney who would be graced with the longer session.

"So far," Carson said, "he's been acting down right amiable about seeing the colonel. Aye, there hasn't been a day yet when he hasn't asked me if he could see him, but he's usually more of a bugger than that."

"Good," Kate said. "It means he's taking John's welfare into consideration. But that may not last, especially if he sees him again. Rodney has a tendency to take things at face-value. Seeing John awake may have him jumping to conclusions that he's on the mend and will be back to himself in no time. And John will probably pretend everything _is_ fine, just for the sake of feeling a little normalcy."

"True," Beckett replied. He then slapped his hands on the desk and stood. "What say we prep them, then?"

Kate also stood. "You talk to Teyla. I'll talk to Ronon, then get started on Rodney."

------------------------------------------

Teyla entered the infirmary with the tray of breakfast food in her hands to be immediately accosted by Carson. His gaze went straight to the small mug of cream of wheat.

"They thin it down like I asked?" he said.

Teyla smiled and nodded. "Exactly as you asked, using water, not milk."

"Aye, good. And no flavoring – honey or sugar?"

Teyla shook her head. "It has been left plain."

"Excellent. I took him off the tube last night and felt cream of wheat not all that different from what was being pumped into him through the tube. He needs something gentle but filling and bland." He turned his attention to the glass of frothy pink liquid that was a common drink for Sheppard after losing weight to sickness or pain. Carson lifted the glass and swirled the drink, testing its thickness and seeming satisfied with it.

"Now remember," he said, setting the glass down, "no touching the lad, even in greeting. And refrain from any singing..."

"I know, Dr. Beckett," Teyla patiently replied. "Your explanation the other day was very thorough." She inflected confidence in her voice, but her insides felt tight with unease. "I know to be careful."

Carson nodded yet seemed troubled. "Aye, I know, but his fever went up a bit today and he tires quick. You know what a nasty combination those two can be and he's already reacted in delirium, even when the fever was at its lowest."

Teyla did know. Colonel Sheppard was very unpredictable when it came to fever-born hallucinations; his mood sharply multifaceted and capable of shifting in a heart-beat. "I understand. I will not make the visit long and find you if he starts to tire."

"Oh, no need for that, lass, I'll be close enough by to see. Until we know more of what he's been through I prefer to have him under my personal watch as much as possible. Come on, then. We moved him to a more private part of the infirmary. All the activity makes him a mite jumpy."

Carson led the way to the back of the infirmary farthest from all the noise and constant motion. Teyla's insides coiled tighter until she was feeling slightly nauseas, her body tense with both excitement and trepidation. She was going to be speaking with a man who was supposed to be dead, and it was difficult to comprehend. How does one talk to those who should have died?

That sounded wrong, like Sheppard should have died, or should have stayed dead - something of that nature - and she hated it. Even being rescued from the wraith had not cleansed her mind of the impression that once taken by the wraith there was no coming back. The ceremony for those culled had been performed by her people without giving her the chance to consult with Dr. Weir first. Teyla had not been comfortable with it. Actually, she had been angry, but had kept that anger to herself. Sheppard's people had their own rituals for the dead yet Halling and many others had been firmly insistent.

"They did not know the wraith when they came here," Halling had said. "Their ways do not take into consideration those who were culled."

Dr. Weir had not been bothered by it, saying it had no affect on their rituals. Teyla had felt it presumptuous. Halling's spirituality could make him very... _territorial_, as it were, when it came to tradition. Having lived in the city of the Ancestors and having died in the galaxy of the ancestors, then only a Ancestor ritual could send John's inner light to where it needed to go.

For Teyla, it had merely been a glorified send-off that had finalized Sheppard being gone and never coming back. Truth be told, Teyla had not been quite ready to give up hope. Sheppard's being taken had left a hole in her that the ceremony had forced her to accept. She had been made to move on and so had without a choice.

Now she felt as though she had betrayed John. She also had no idea what she was going to tell her people, if they would heap on the hero-worship Sheppard was always uncomfortable with or shun him. It would not be so bad if Sheppard had escaped on his own. Since he had not, his return could be viewed as a bad omen: Sheppard seen as a wraith-conspirator and possible spy. Not that her people had ever experienced such, but there were legends that acted like guidelines should those freed by the wraith turn up among the populace.

Wraith did not let their meals live without a purpose. Teyla knew, in her heart with no room for doubt, that this was not why Sheppard had returned. Her people, however, did not know him as she did no matter what they claimed.

The privacy curtain was pulled back showing Teyla Sheppard curled against the upraised head of the bed asleep, buried up to his face under the blankets and looking uncomfortably small.

Teyla slowed. "We did not come in time," she said.

Carson grinned. "No, he's probably just dozing. It's an on and off thing he'll be doing a lot of for some time. Let me wake him." He approached the bed slowly and bent in close to Sheppard, keeping his hands behind his back as he spoke to John in a whisper. John curled tighter with a wince like he was trying to shrink away. Carson spoke a little louder and Sheppard's head snapped up almost hitting Carson in the face. Beckett continued to speak as he waved Teyla over.

"Teyla's here," he said. "Even brought you some breakfast. Let me help you get settled..." John flinched when Carson touched his shoulder and arm to help him sit straighter. Two small foam pillows were placed behind both of Sheppard's shoulders and a second regular pillow behind his head for better support. Teyla thought he looked worse awake. At least asleep there was an expression of peace on his face. Awake, he appeared very sick and exhausted. The shadowed skin beneath his eyes appeared dark against the white of his face, except for a bit of pink at his cheeks... and then there was all the bruising. She kept her gaze on his face, ignoring the jutting bones of his chest and the way the scrub-shirt looked as though it could slide off his body at the collar.

Looking at him - at what the wraith had done to him, the way he had cringed anticipating something painful when Beckett had touched him – pained her like a knife twisting into her gut. She could feel her lips quivering when she forced on a smile. She thought she would have to leave, just for a moment, to compose herself when John smiled back. It was a tired smile, but it reached his eyes and was enough to get her to relax and give her smile as genuine as his.

"Hey Teyla," he rasped, and raised his hand off the bed in a small wave. His eyes darted to the tray. "Breakfast in bed, my only favorite thing about the infirmary."

"My charming personality not enough for you, Colonel?" Carson said, pressing the electronic thermometer into John's ear.

Sheppard winced. "Not when I'm on the receiving end of your treatment, Doc."

Teyla relaxed another fraction at the normality of banter. "I thought I would make myself useful," she said. Beckett did a quick listen to John's heart and breathing; then he set up the little swiveling table for Teyla to set the tray on. He finished by pulling up a stool for her and patting it.

"Have a seat, love. I'll be close by keeping busy if the two of you need anything."

Teyla sat and Carson left. She watched John, waiting for him to drink from the dark-blue ceramic mug. Instead he just stared at it, his expression uncertain and growing more so by the second. A nurse walked by, her proximity causing him to jump and look away from the mug for no more than a second before going back to staring at it.

"John?" Teyla prompted.

John's shoulders twitched. He looked up, pushing the mug away with incremental little shoves. "Um... I, um..." He looked back at the mug, then back at Teyla, uncomfortable. "Is there something else... I could have?"

Teyla leaned in enough to peer into the mug, wondering if the thinner consistency was bothering John. She had seem him eat this very food before, but with barely any liquid added, keeping it thick. "Do you not like Cream of Wheat?"

John seemed startled by the question. "What? No, I love it, it's just... I'm not... I just want something different is all. I mean, is that okay?" The look he gave her was a helpless one, seeking permission while worried he was in the wrong for doing so. There was an earth saying of beggars not able to be choosers, and Teyla wondered if this was why John was so troubled; if he thought she thought he was being picky after having nearly starved to death.

Teyla was not naïve. She took the mug and set it on the small table next to the bed, the cereal out of sight. "I will ask Dr. Beckett if there is something else you can have. What of the pink drink?"

Where as John had been apprehensive of the mug, the pink liquid appeared to sicken him, turning his face another shade whiter. She quickly removed that as well, hiding it in a two-handed grip as she swiveled around to face Carson doing inventory of near-by supply closet. "Dr. Beckett?"

Carson nearly lost his footing, he spun around so fast. "Yes, lass?"

"Colonel Sheppard was wondering if, perhaps, there was something else he could have to eat?"

Beckett hurried over taking both the mug and the glass. "Oh, aye. There's uh... well, there's oatmeal, or," he rolled his eyes ceiling-ward as he thought, muttering under his breath. Then he perked. "Oh, there's broth, of course, but I didn't think you'd like that for breakfast. Really more of a dinner thing..."

"Broth," John interjected with a pinched edge of desperation to his voice. "Broth sounds good."

Carson nodded and then held up the pink liquid. "And you're sure you can't handle a little of this? It's strawberry. I thought you liked strawberry?"

A visible shudder wracked the length of John's body. "I do," he said. "But, got chocolate instead?" he sheepishly asked with a nervous smile.

Carson sagged and rolled his ayes. "Should have bloody well asked you first. Of course, colonel. There's chocolate. I'll be sure to ask you next time."

John shook his head. "My fault. Sorry."

It was a little odd all this uneasy politeness as though both men were deathly afraid of offending the other. What it really was was Carson going extra miles to keep John comfortable and John... Teyla had an idea, just not one she was ready to dwell on.

"No need to apologize," Carson said. "I'll just go hand these off and have someone fetch you another breakfast."

Beckett wandered off. Teyla turned back to John giving him a reassuring smile. "How are you today, John?" she asked, shifting the subject before Sheppard started apologizing to her. He had looked about ready to.

"Tired," he said. "Hungry, too, but mostly tired." Another nurse breezed by, closer than the last, and John's startled flinch was violent slamming his cast wrist into the bed rails that rattled on impact. He hissed, wincing, and hugged the damaged arm against his chest.

Teyla's immediate desire was to reach out and place her hand on Sheppard's shoulder. Her hand was already in motion when she recalled and quickly pulled it back. "John, are you all right?"

Still wincing, Sheppard nodded. "Yeah. Still kind of jumpy, I guess." He opened his eyes that were already apologetic. Again, Teyla shifted the matter before he could say anything.

"I also find that the nurses can be very... _sneaky,_" she said with a smile.

Sheppard grinned at that one, and it warmed her inside to see it. He shifted, rubbing the plaster over his wrist as though it actually helped to ease the pain. "True, but it's not that. I just can't seem to relax. Not even when I'm asleep. Weird, huh?"

Teyla shrugged. "I suppose. During the time I had sensed the wraith in Atlantis, I, too, had trouble relaxing even in sleep."

John arched an eyebrow. "Maybe that's my problem," he smiled languidly, "I can sense wraith now and there's one nearby."

Teyla gave him a look of mock admonishment. "That is not funny, colonel."

His eyes flicked from Teyla to something across the room, then back to Teyla. "Sorry. Just... been a while since I've tried to be funny. I think I'm a little rusty at it."

"Then there is no harm in practicing," she said.

Again his eyes darted from then back to her. "Got kind of hard to find anything funny after a while," he said. Another flicker of his eyes. " Even to be a pain in the ass." Another flicker, this time lingering on whatever it was he was looking at, his brow bunching in consternation. "She keeps looking at me."

Teyla turned to finally see what it was John was seeing. A female nurse carrying a clipboard was talking to a male tech. Her focus was on him but her eyes flitted in John's direction twice. Teyla turned back to John. "I believe she is simply making sure you are all right. You did just knock your wrist into the rails."

Teyla was not sure if John had heard her. His stare was fixed on the nurse and the look in his eyes was one Teyla had seen many times before, mostly on those missions that had begun peaceful but did not end peaceful. It was the expression Sheppard always adopted whenever there was trouble that had yet to manifest itself: thick suspicion and intense focus. It was making Teyla nervous.

The muscles in John's jaw twitched. "I'm fine; she doesn't have to keep watching me." He finally averted his gaze to everything and anything not in the general vicinity of the nurse. He finally settled it on Teyla, and it seemed a fight for him to keep from looking away. "So how have you been?"

"Well," Teyla said, humoring him, hoping the distraction was indeed helping. "I have been spending more time with my people."

John nodded stiffly, and when he spoke, his voice was high and cracked, "Good. Rodney and Ronon? How have they been?"

"Also well. Rodney has been making many repairs to the city, and Ronon has been accompanying the other off-world teams. He has become quite fixated on seeing different worlds, as he puts it, 'not running for his life'."

The nurse finally left and John's body visibly slackened like melting. He smiled. "Good for him. So who's been keeping the military functional while I've been gone?"

"Col. Caldwell. It was to be a temporary assignment until another could be found. The SGC still wishes him to command the Daedalus." _But now that you are back, perhaps a replacement is not needed_. She had almost spoken the words out loud, had even opened her mouth to say them, then caught herself and snapped her jaw shut. John Sheppard was a practical man. When ill or injured, though always anxious to resume his duties, he never argued over who was given temporary command, whether it be Lorne or Caldwell. He did not dictate on how they should run things or 'keep tabs' on them as Rodney sometimes did when Zelenka had to be in charge. He simply accepted the inevitable and let matters be.

But recent turn of events had created a more complicated situation. For all Teyla knew, returning to his duties was the farthest thing from his mind right now, and it would probably not help him any to bring the matter up.

"Temporary?" John said, incredulous. "Wow, I thought he'd be slapped into permanent command two days after I was gone."

Teyla gave him a mildly reprimanding look. "I do not think even your Stargate Command is that harsh. Besides, because of your 'track record', as Dr. Weir had put it, she would not allow the SGC to give up on you so quickly. But," she added hesitantly, "it became... inevitable. However, by then, the one who was to take over was given another assignment, and a new choice has yet to be made. We believe the SGC has simply given in to letting Caldwell command, but have yet to get around to making it official."

John nodded. "They're not going to just stick anyone with command. They'll want someone they can be sure will stay on their side. Billions of light years distance and the closest thing to isolation can change a guy." He looked up at Teyla with a smile. "So, you guys were really holding out for me to escape?"

Teyla grinned back. "I do not think any of us gave up, even after..."

"My funeral?"

She widened her eyes in alarm. "You know of that?"

"Not really. I just assumed there would've been one eventually." His smile vanished, replaced by an uncertainty Teyla could see him trying to push away. "You don't think," he began in that somewhat high-toned voice that manifested when he was uncomfortable and trying not to be. "I mean... people don't think that, because I didn't escape..." he looked away as though visually searching for the right words. "That I," then hesitantly returned his gaze, "_earned_ my freedom in some way? That I - I, uh, I... turned?"

Again, Teyla widened her eyes. "Oh. No, of course not. Nobody thinks that. You would never betray us unless something had been done to make you unaware..."

"I know that," John interrupted. "Carson and I had a nice long talk about that just the other day..." he shook his head, "afternoon, whenever. Whether something was done to me without my knowledge isn't what I'm talking about. I don't know why the queen gave me up but I sure as hell know it's not because I gave up to her. Crap, she never even interrogated me." He locked eyes with her and his desperation surprised her. "I didn't betray anyone. I never said anything to her."

Teyla could not say if the reassurance was for her sake, everyone's, or John, himself. It was then she realized that his constant ready tension, the one hidden behind loose limbs and a casual air, was now a dominant presence on the surface, while easily missed because of his weakened body and fatigue. It was not the tension of one waiting for alarms to sound, but of one waiting for the things hiding in the shadows and beyond sight to attack at any moment. A pointless and irrational tension, except for it not having been so pointless and irrational at one time. Whatever had been done to John to keep him in such a state had to have been an incessant presence for him to remain this way even when home and safe.

Teyla did not think when she reached out to take John's hand in hers, only to have the limb recoil back when her fingers brushed his knuckles. He looked down, more surprised by his own reaction than the actual touch.

Teyla drew her hand back. "It is all right, John. We know you did not talk. You would have never talked."

John shook his head. "Don't be too sure on that last part. I'm not." He was still fixated on his hand. After a moment, he slid it forward lifting it on a trembling arm to reach out to Teyla's hand. She took his, and for a heartbeat his arm stopped shaking.

Only to start up again, harder. John's brow wrinkled in confusion. "I don't know why it's doing that."

"It has been some time since anyone held your hand," Teyla suggested kindly. She set John's limb gently back on the bed. "Or, more likely, you are merely hungry."

He looked at her, painfully apologetic as though he had hurt her in some way. "I'm sorry."

Teyla shook her head fiercely. Sheppard was making it difficult for her to fight back the need for a good cry and she knew how much he hated pity. Pity meant things were wrong beyond the obvious, that John had been altered to a point of no return and there would never be such a thing as normal for him again. It meant he was weak and helpless. And though they were facts even he could not deny, they were also facts he did not need to be reminded of, and pity shoved it in his face.

"Do not be sorry," she said. "Please do not." What she felt was not pity, it was sorrow. The problem was that the difference could be difficult to tell apart. Teyla did not know what else to say that would fix the situation, except to steer the conversation elsewhere – again.

Thankfully, Carson did the steering for her when he returned with a tray holding another mug and another glass, this one with a brown liquid. "Had one of my nurses bring this up since she was returning from breakfast anyways." He set the tray in front of John. "This help kick up your appetite, lad?"

John nodded. "Yeah. Thanks, doc. Sorry about being picky."

Beckett waved dismissively. "Don't fret it, colonel. It's your appetite we're trying to fix. You've got every bloody right to be picky."

Sheppard snorted and coughed out a high-pitched and rather manic sounding laugh. "Yeah, sure I do."

"You do, lad, trust me. Now eat up while the one's still warm and the other cold."

Straws had been added to both cups so Sheppard did not have to bring them all the way to his mouth. It was still difficult for him the way both hands shook as they tilted the mug enough to put the straw within reach, but Teyla knew it would help him increase the strength in his arms. And it always helped whenever he could accomplish something on his own.

Eating, for John, was a slow process. He finished off the broth but could only stomach less than half of the frothy drink. Teyla did most of the talking, telling him about eventful missions, not so eventful, and general goings on in the city. She was able to coax another genuine smile from him, especially when she told him of Rodney's run in with a gelatinous sea-creature that had been clogging one of the sewage pipes.

"It was dead," Teyla explained, "but the pressure in the pipe sent its body flying from the pipe straight into Dr. McKay's face. Of course, it was not humorous at the time, not until Dr. Beckett was able to cut it off and assure us that Rodney was not injured."

Sheppard chuckled softly. "Sorry I missed that." Then he yawned, wide and long. "Crap, and I just woke up not that long ago, too."

"It is all right, colonel," Teyla assured. "You need to rest, and I should leave you to it."

Sheppard's head lulled as he fought sleep. "You'll drop by again, though... right?"

Teyla nodded. "Of course."

John continued to fight sleep, even as Teyla headed out. She thought he might be afraid to sleep. She saw fear pass like a shadow in his eyes when she cast one last glance over her shoulder.

TBC...


	13. A Dark Valley

A/N: Nothin' but love to you all for your reviews.

Ch. 12

A Dark Valley

Teyla jumped when Rodney's tray clattered on the surface of the table. McKay followed sliding into the seat, unwinding the eating utensils from his napkin while staring at her intently.

"So?" he asked.

Teyla had been in deep thought and still found herself having a little trouble pulling herself from those thoughts. "So, what?"

Ronon eased himself into his own chair next to hers, setting his tray down with a lot more stealth. "He wants to know how Sheppard is."

"Then why did he just not say so?"

Ronon shrugged. "He's McKay. He always thinks people know what he's talking about.

Rodney rolled his eyes. "If I really thought that, then I would never take the time to dumb anything down for all of you. But, yes, Mr. Obvious is right. How's Sheppard?" Condescension was swiftly displaced by eagerness. "Is he getting better? Is he off the feeding tube? How'd he look? Did he talk to you or give you the silent treatment?"

"Maybe you should let her talk," Ronon said, "so she can answer you." He popped a nugget of breaded meat into his mouth. Today's lunch was chicken nuggets, potatoes, and curried bako root that the Lanteans compared to boiled squash.

Teyla ran her fork through her potatoes forming thin runnels for the melted butter to pool into. "He is no longer on the feeding tube," she said. She had known the others of her team would come with questions, and she had tried to figure out in advance how to answer them, but still wished they had not asked. It was all too complicated to explain.

She stopped mutilating her potatoes and set her fork down on her tray. "He is doing as well as expected."

"That isn't an answer," Rodney countered.

Teyla brought her gaze up and glared at him. "It is the only answer I have," she snapped, then sighed in instant regret.

Rodney's head reared back in alarm. "Gee, sorry. I suck at worrying, all right? And would a simple yes or no have hurt? No, it wouldn't have. But, hey, now I know better than to..."

"Rodney," Teyla jumped in. "I did not mean to respond in such a way and I am sorry. I simply do not know how to answer in a manner that you would understand. He ate without the use of the tube and we talked for some time before he had to sleep. But..."

"But?" Ronon pressed.

Teyla shook her head. "But he was a prisoner of the wraith." Enough said as far as she was concerned.

"That bad, huh?" Ronon said.

Rodney's eyes darted between the two. "What? What's bad? What am I missing, here? Oh, yeah, _now _who thinks they think everyone knows what they're talking about?"

"McKay," Ronon rumbled. "You'll be visiting with him eventually, so just wait and find out for yourself."

Rodney shoveled chicken into his mouth, talking around it in a spray of crumbs. "I don't wanna wait. I want to be prepared. I want to know whether opening my mouth will either reduce him to tears or punching me in the face. I will admit that I am not the most wisely articulate of people..."

Ronon and Teyla exchanged a knowing look.

"And I would rather not damage the colonel any more than he already is."

Teyla smiled. Dr. McKay was an acquired taste. The abrasive outer-layer of the man was just that – an outer layer. Inside there was a heart that beat and a man who tried to care even if he did not particularly excel at it. Her first impression on meeting him had been of a man who could not see beyond his own nose. But years had stripped that layer enough for Teyla to completely reform her opinion. Sometimes all he could manage was trying and, sometimes, that was enough.

Teyla retrieved her fork to resume her meal. "It is difficult to explain because I fear anything I try to say may be taken wrong."

Rodney immediately bristled. "I would not..."

"Not by you, personally, Dr. McKay," she quickly added. "I feel I would not be able to explain what I saw, what I felt, correctly. Speaking to him is not the difficult matter. Seeing him as he is, it is... hard." She stirred her potatoes before finally taking a bite.

"Did he say anything about what happened to him?" Ronon asked.

"Only that the queen did not interrogate him, and that he did not betray Atlantis."

"Well of course he didn't," Rodney scoffed. "This is Sheppard we're talking about. He'd give up flying before he'd betray us."

_Colonel Sheppard did not seem so sure._

She would not say this out loud. The confession had felt like something private between the two of them, and had been the kind of vulnerability Sheppard never showed. It did not feel right revealing it so freely to the others.

It was also a difficult truth to swallow. Sheppard would have held out as long as he could, but he was human. Between his weakened body, the abuse on his mind by a wraith queen, and being healed if death tried to claim him during that abuse, he would only have been able to hold out for so long. Teyla did not need to have experienced this, nor witnessed this for her to know. It was simply a fact of life. All living things had their breaking points.

Rodney stuffed the last of his food into his mouth then checked his watch. "Well, gotta go. Heightmeyer will be expecting me in a couple of minutes." He gave them a triumphant grin. "Probably to prep me as the Colonel's next visitor." He picked up his tray and headed back to the lunch line to deposit it.

Teyla tried to focus on her food, but was finding it difficult to focus on anything.

"You're really worried," Ronon stated.

McKay was right; Ronon did adhere quite tightly to the obvious. "Was it not apparent until now?" She may not use sarcasm as often as some, but that did not mean she never used it. "Of course I am worried."

"No," Ronon said with a shake of his head. "This is different."

Teyla's nerves prickled with irritation at his persistence. "Different how?"

Ronon smiled briefly, as though getting a rise out of her was exactly what he had been hoping for. "You're more touchy."

Teyla glared at him and Ronon's hands immediately shot up in defense. "I'm just saying."

"Then perhaps you should not," she spat, knowing it only proved Ronon's point but not caring. She stabbed a piece of chicken and shoved it into her mouth, hoping he would take to the hint to back off.

Ronon's expression softened. "It's making me nervous."

She fumbled with her fork that fell with a clatter onto her tray and stared at him wide-eyed. "My worry is making you nervous?"

"What you're not able to explain is making me nervous." He leaned forward, ducking his head and lowering his voice. "Look, I have a start of an idea of what it was like for Sheppard. I've been there. Not in the same way, yeah, but I've still been there. You wake up on a hive ship and you're terrified out of your mind at first. That's a given. Then it hits you that you're going to die no matter what, so you push the terror back and stare death in the face as it stares back at you. But when death doesn't do anything and the next thing you know you're being pulled from the cocoon..." Ronon trailed off, and for the first time for as long as Teyla had known him, the runner opened himself wide to the discomfort of recalling something that had honestly, unquestionably frightened him. "It's hard not to be afraid. You rage and you glare because it's all you have to use to fight with, but the fear feels like it's trying to choke you. At least, in the cocoons, you knew what was coming. Outside the cocoons," he shook his head, "you have no idea, and that terrifies you more than the thought of being fed on. And Sheppard... he probably got to experience that each time he woke up, because no way do the wraith make anything easy on us."

Ronon sat back, returning to Teyla her personal space. Teyla stared at him, both amazed at his insight and appalled by it, because he was probably right. No, he was definitely right. "He had seemed frightened to me," she said without realizing.

Ronon nodded, dejected like a man who had seen bad news on the horizon and finally had it confirmed.

"Do you think he will be able to overcome it?" she asked, hoping.

"Depends on him," Ronon said. "And what they did to him."

----------------------------------------------

Carson checked over the monitors, jotting the readings onto his clipboard. Colonel Sheppard's blood pressure was in the odd habit of fluctuating; rising one moment then dropping the next, never to dangerous levels but it was beginning to frustrate the Scottish doctor. He suspected it had to do with a combination of how easily the Colonel exhausted himself and the last traces of enzyme finally leaving his body. Right now, his pressure was a little on the high side, even with the pilot asleep. Glancing at the colonel, Beckett thought he knew why.

Sweat glittered at the pilot's hairline and slicked his throat soaking into the collar of the scrub shirt. Carson whipped the electric thermometer from his lab-coat pocket, placing one hand lightly on John's bony shoulder and the device into his ear. Sheppard recoiled both times. The thermometer beeped, the reading at 103.

"Damn," Carson muttered. He tucked the thermometer away to start stripping off the layers of blankets added when Sheppard's BP had been low. "Carissa, love," he called. "Could you help me out here?" He bundled the blankets, passing them off to the nurse to deposit elsewhere while instructing her to fetch the needed medication. He collected blood that he handed off to a second nurse, then when Carissa returned had her help him roll Sheppard into a comfortable position on his back. Sheppard jolted but didn't wake.

Carson slipped his stethoscope onto his ears and listened to the colonel's heart, then lungs, hearing an increase crackling in the lungs. "Well," he sighed, "looks like this bugger of a bug isn't giving up without a fight." He wiped sweat-soaked hair away from Sheppard's chalk-pale forehead. "Sorry lad. You never do seem to get a break."

John's brow furrowed at the touch and he turned his head away, still unconscious.

----------------------------------------

Kate had never seen Rodney sit so still since he'd first started coming to her. Okay, perhaps the way his knee kept bouncing couldn't be called sitting still, but it was antithesis to his usually sitting, then standing, pacing, then sitting again. McKay was an organic perpetual motion machine and Kate had determined, long ago, that there was no such thing as sitting still for Rodney McKay. It could make a person seasick watching him, except Kate had conditioned herself to ignore the motion and focus on his words.

So she was a little surprised by McKay's_almost_ lack of motion. She was more intent on his combination smile and fidgeting tension. He wanted to go see his friend – that was obvious – which meant he wasn't going to make this session easy. He was happy in a too-happy kind of way, his posture stiff and his fingers drumming on his knee.

He was anxious to see his friend, while at the same time not really looking forward to it. That was McKay in a nutshell. The human condition was a hard thing for him to digest; emotions of others and especially his own emotions topped his list of that which he would rather avoid, children being second. Emotions were something that could not be fixed hands-on with a computer or a theorem, but that wasn't his problem no matter how much he argued otherwise. Rodney had come to prefer the hassle-free world of avoiding ties, where people were entities he worked with, not bonded with. Coming to the Pegasus Galaxy had changed all that and it was a change that he was still getting used to even after three years of it.

The man had the capacity to care – a great capacity. Yet depending on the situation it had a way of burning him out emotionally.

It's what Kate needed to watch out for, as well as prep Rodney against. In an unconscious act of self-preservation he might try to downplay what Colonel Sheppard had gone through. Not that he would realize he was doing so. It didn't help that they didn't have the details of John's experience on the hive ship to put it all into better perspective. Rodney had a good enough imagination to whip up life-threatening experiences in a heart beat. However, he had an even better sense of protecting-the-self that would prevent him from contemplating anything his mind would not be able to handle. He wasn't going to speculate on what might have been done to Sheppard.

"You seem anxious," Kate said. "Looking forward to talking to John?"

Rodney shrugged in a poor display of nonchalance. "It'll be nice to see how he's _doing_ since you won't let all of us see him at the same time. Is that really necessary?"

"Believe me when I say…it is," Kate replied. "Have you seen Teyla today? Did she tell you about her visit?"

Again Rodney shrugged. "She wasn't precisely forthcoming about it."

"How did she seem to you?"

McKay gave Kate an odd, slightly put-off expression. "I thought we were talking about visiting with Sheppard? And she seemed kind of down, like someone had kicked her favorite dog, laughed at her, then ran off."

"Did that bother you at all? Her reaction?"

"Actually, yes, because she was being very irritable and taking it out on me."

More accurately she was probably provoked, but Kate wasn't going to say that. McKay would bristle at the drop of a pin if the noise so much as disturbed him. She nodded instead. Rodney also tended to be more sensitive when agitated or excited.

Kate tapped her pen against her notebook and then waved dismissively with the same hand. "No, I mean did it bother you since she had just gone to see Colonel Sheppard?"

Another shrug. "A little, actually. But he's been in rough situations before and come back pretty banged up, body and head. He's pulled through. Is this honestly going to be any different?" Rodney's tone had tried to remain neutral but his eyes were almost pleading with Kate, begging her to say that, yes, it wouldn't be any different. Except that it was always different, each situation had led to a different reaction to that situation. After nearly turning into an iratus bug, Sheppard had been overly apologetic to everyone, even over minor discrepancies. When rescued from the time-dilation field, he had wandered around Atlantis in a daze, constantly confusing the dates, seeking solitude one moment, and then company the next. After the Lucius fiasco he had been restless, jumpy, perpetually looking over his shoulder and unable to sleep for four days. His torture by Kolya and being fed on had left him angry, edgy and untouchable for two weeks.

But only Kate had seen it. Carson had as well, to some degree, yet only the physical aspects, such as the colonel's loss of appetite, erratic sleeping patterns, and adrenaline perpetually pumping through his veins. It wasn't that everyone had been blind to his state of mind, or that he hid it well. Actually, it hadn't even been obvious to him until Beckett started hounding him over health issues. What it boiled down to was normalcy being a commodity in the Pegasus Galaxy, and people jumping on it like water in the desert. It was Kate's job to make sure they didn't drown.

"Yes," Kate said. "It is going to be different."

Rodney's whole body sagged as though melting. "Oh."

Kate leaned forward a little, resting her arms on top of her open notebook, letting her hands hang loose over the edge. Everything she had to say was going to come out as brutal honesty, and radiating placation through body language would only make McKay feel patronized. "Rodney, the reason we haven't let you see Colonel Sheppard yet is because we still don't know what was done to him on that hive ship, so we don't know how he might react to different kinds of stimuli. That includes visitations by more than one person. When it comes to the 'rough situations,' Colonel Sheppard doesn't so much pull through as get by. The things that have happened to him, that had been done to him, still affect him even today. Maybe not as bad, but they're still an influence on him. Take Koyla's invasion of Atlantis, for example. Colonel Sheppard had wanted to give IDC codes only to those Athosians Teyla trusted most, and it had taken days to convince him to go with laying down stricter ground-rules instead."

Kate sat back into the softness of her chair. "The colonel has already displayed an aversion to touch, sudden movement, being stared at, and seems to have issues with certain kinds of food. But those are only surface reactions. Not that long ago he nearly had a panic attack over someone humming."

Rodney arched both eyebrows. "Humming?"

Kate inclined her head. "Humming."

Rodney slumped back against his own chair. "Ooo-kaaay? But the touch thing... that's, that's, that's because he was, uh, fed on, right? That's something he can get over easy, right?"

Kate closed her eyes and sighed. "It's not a matter of 'getting over' anything, Rodney. It's more a matter of overcoming." She opened them again. "It's a matter of a lot of things, really. Finding out what happened to him for one."

"You keep saying that. Have you even talked to him, yet? Do your thing? Poke around in his brain?"

He had her there. Kate shook her head. "No. Not yet."

Rodney huffed a bewildered laugh. "Then quit going on about not knowing what happened to him and ask him already."

"It's not that easy."

"How the hell is it not easy? You go up to him, you ask, he tells, end of story."

Kate heaved another sigh, although it wasn't as though she hadn't seen this coming. "No, McKay, it really isn't that easy. Number one being that John is in a kind of state of shock right now and what happened to him isn't even clear in his own head. I could tell just by watching him _and_ listening to him. He had a few things to say, but it barely made any sense. Number two is confidential and all I will say on the matter is that I know how Colonel Sheppard thinks and what he needs. I will talk to him but only in a way that is comfortable for him."

Rodney's face fell and Kate could see flickering hints of panic starting to worm its way in. "Is he really that bad off? I mean, what do I have to expect here? Violent reactions? Inane babbling?"

"Carson told me Teyla's visit went off very well and they talked for some time."

McKay quickly relaxed. "Talking, good. Talking's good, right? Means he's not insane or broken or..."

Kate massaged the space between her eyes. This is what she had been worried about, McKay's emotional self-defense, things either being one-hundred percent this way or one-hundred percent that way, with no room for anything in-between.

"He's hurt, Rodney," Kate gently interjected. "He's been hurt and is still hurting. And I need you to understand that, and I mean _really _understand. Because I know you and know you're going to expect him to overcome this like he seems to do with everything else, but you need to keep in mind that," she took a fortifying breath for what she was about to say next, "that he might not, not this time. I'm not saying that's what's going to happen, just that the chance is much higher than it has ever been before. I know you're going to want to help him just like everyone else, but you have to be willing to help in the way he needs it, not the way you want to help him or think you know how he should be helped. There can be no pushing him, no badgering him for answers and no assuming that just because he's laughing one moment doesn't mean everything's suddenly fine. At the same time, when you do talk to him, you need to talk to him as you always would. Just with a little more care."

Rodney physically deflated, while scowling. "Oh, yes, that's just so easy paying attention to every little thing I say. I might as well just not talk to him."

"No, McKay, you need to talk to him. He needs your support just as much as everyone else's, as well as any sense of normalcy you can bring him. I'm just warning you of what's ahead, as well as what you need to watch out for, and how you need to handle things, at least for the time being."

"So, in other words, not give in to being a selfish ass and give him the cold shoulder when he takes a particularly bad day out on me."

Kate bit back a wince. "Well, that's putting it a bit harsh. Although, there may have to be a lot of tolerance on your part. I'm not calling you selfish, Rodney..."

Rodney flapped one hand, halting her. "No, I know what you're trying to say. If I want to help Sheppard, then it's all or nothing. No bailing if he flips out and no wallowing in any kind of self-pity over my friend possibly turning into a basket case. Genius, remember? And I can do that." He nodded stiffly. "I've done it before, kind of, right?" His body jerked with a breathy chuckle and then a shudder ran the length of it. Kate had seen him scared plenty of times in the past, but his current demeanor was more a combination of frantic and helpless.

Kate inclined her head to one side. "Rodney?"

Rodney fisted his hand over his mouth, coughing to clear his throat, and then nodded. "I can do this." He looked at her, locking gazes, his demeanor subtly shifting to calm. "So, when can I see him? And please don't tell me we went through all of this just to have it be Ronon's turn."

Kate smiled. "I'll need to talk to Carson first. He'll be the one to let you know."

Rodney slumped deeper into the seat until he was nearly sliding from it and tossed his hands up. "Great. Never, then. If Beckett hasn't already informed you, I tend to be a negative influence on his patient's health."

Kate bent forward, reaching out to pat Rodney's knee. "He'll let you, trust me." She sat back, shifting into a more comfortable position. "And _all of this_ was just as much for your benefit as for Colonel Sheppard's. I want you to be prepared for what might be. You'd had a hard time accepting, then adjusting to Sheppard's absence and all the changes that came with it. A part of you is expecting things to go back to the way they were. You need to be ready in case they don't. And you need to come see me if you start feeling you can't manage. All right? Don't hesitate."

Rodney straightened and nodded. "Right, I can do that. So, that it, then? We done?"

"Unless there's something else you want to talk about," Kate said.

"Actually," Rodney said, rising, "I think I'm all talked out for today." He grinned. "Now wouldn't Sheppard get a kick out of that?" He strolled out of Kate's office all grins.

Kate twisted her mouth doubtfully. Rodney was still coming across as a little too giddy. Not that she wanted him to be depressed or spooked. However, he was floating on a euphoria high that he really needed to climb down from before being pulled down. It wouldn't involve a crash, sudden and abrupt. It would be more methodical than that; probably, it would start with him distancing himself from Sheppard, and then everyone else, finding it preferable to avoiding a potentially similar ordeal. There might also be anger and impatience should the old John not shine through.

Kate's thoughts turned to Teyla. Since she was the first to speak with John, Kate would need to speak with her, learn what she saw and find out her reactions to it. She had been very withdrawn the first few weeks of Sheppard being culled, but not in the same manner of McKay. It was actually her own people she had avoided for a time, all because of a ceremony performed.

Ronon had been restless, always taking off on spontaneous off-world trips, mostly alone, sometimes with a team only to split off from them. Since he never talked about it, Kate had never found out the purpose of the journeys. Although, she had her suspicions, tracking Sheppard the hard way via a little wraith hunting could have had something to do with it.

The team had been as unique in how they had handled John's absence as their personalities. Their reactions toward his return would be just as unique.

Kate jotted down a few notes, observations, opinions, and reminders. She then flipped the page, tapping her pen against the unmarked surface. Her thoughts shifted to John and how she was going to handle getting him to talk about what went on in that hive ship, this time without giving him the luxury of coming to her, but preferably without rushing him.

--------------------------------------------

John's eyes felt gritty, his skin sticky and overheated, contrasting impossibly with the core of cold frosting his insides. He shivered as he cooked. Maybe it was the drug. Or maybe he had been a bad little human morsel, so Morticia had decided to go extra sadistic and give him a souped-up version of the flu. He wouldn't hold it past her seeing as how she just _loved_ reminding him that by the grace of her did John Sheppard still breathe.

He shivered and it had nothing to do with being cold. Whether being sick was an act of nature or an act of the wraith queen, they were going to stick him in a cubby again, and he wasn't sure if he could handle it a third time around. Was it third? He couldn't quite remember. It was all that screaming he couldn't take. And the smell of dead things, like being buried alive in a mass grave with other living people. His sanity was already worn to a frayed thread; he was barely keeping together against the feedings. Another day of purgatory in hell's kitchen was going to snap that thread. He really, really needed that thread, especially to help keep his mouth shut when Morticia felt like making him sing.

_Little one_.

John curled tight, a combination moan and whimper vibrating his throat.

_Time to go._

John opened his eyes, or tried to, managing only slits. Ki'vana was waiting for him, a shadowed-shape haloed in a pale, misty glow reflecting off the sleep-gunk in his eyes. Everything was dark blue and hazy with ghost-lights refracting softly off polished surfaces. John pushed back the blankets and started sliding from the bed, only to be halted by thin tentacles tugging on his skin. A new kind of cocoon? He ripped the slick little threads from his hand, his chest, cringing when something shrieked. He flailed out blindly until his hand smacked that shrieking something and it went silent. Then he slid the rest of the way off the bed and followed Ki'vana to spend another glorious day with the queen.

TBC...

A/N: (Cringes) Sorry.


	14. Shadow Land

A/N: Because you all rock, and cliffhangers suck, I decided to post this a few days early. Enjoy!

Ch. 13

Shadow Land

There was a reason Carson preferred sleeping in his office. The nurse barging into his room only had to call his name and he was up, tugging on his shoes and charging out the door right behind her. She led him to the private unit of the infirmary and an empty bed with rumpled blankets and discarded wiring and tubes.

"Are people bloody deaf? Why didn't anyone hear the monitors go off?!"

"He turned them off before anyone had a chance to respond to them," Janet, the night nurse, breathlessly explained. "I didn't know anything was wrong until I passed the cubicle and didn't hear any beeping. We already searched the infirmary. He isn't here."

Carson moved away from the bed straight to the door. "Maybe he didn't get too far. We'll do a quick nearby sweep. If that doesn't pan out, I'm calling in a search party."

------------------------------

It was hard to walk, hard to see. John's legs felt like the bones were turning to rubber, forcing him to prop himself up against the wall as he walked. Everything was blue spectral lights and hazy halos softening harsh corners, blurring shapes. Ki'vana was a human shape darker than the darkness and always too far ahead to keep up with. John wasn't sure where they were going today. Morticia liked to keep things interesting, and one hall looked like another.

Except this one. This one was different while still vaguely familiar. He would think even his uncooperative brain would have sense enough to make careful note of the one set of corridors on the hive sporting a unique personality. He would have asked if something had been done to the place - a little remodeling or interior decorating, if wraith did such things - but he didn't have the energy to give a damn. The air was cooking his skin without penetrating to melt the chunk of ice freezing his innards. He folded his arms tight over his chest, sweat-slicked skin sliding over sweat-slicked skin. No wonder he was freakin' freezing. So why was he also roasting? He really hated his body, sometimes.

Wherever they were going, it was getting darker.

------------------------------

"He's emaciated, he's sick, and he upped and walked away less than thirty minutes ago," said McKay. "How the hell could he get lost so fast?" He was dressed, probably had been dressed when the call came that help was needed to locate Sheppard. In fact, he'd probably never went to bed.

Ronon made sure his weapon was set to stun, holstered it, and then thrust an LSD into Rodney's hands. "Weren't you the one saying he could get lost even with a GSS?"

Rodney clutched the device in both hands and scowled. "That's GPS, and this is different. He shouldn't have been able to get that far... _unless_ he veered off course into one of the uninhabited sectors." His face paled a few shades. "In which case, he must be really, really, _really_ delirious. Crap! He's hard enough to deal with when he's sane."

Ronon grinned. That's what he liked about Sheppard. The man knew how to fight back even when there was nothing left to fight.

---------------------------------

Teyla had to admire her own timing. She had been just completing her nightly stretches when the call came that Colonel Sheppard had wandered from the infirmary. She moved quickly, changing from skirts to pants, and grabbed the flashlight Sheppard had told her to keep with her in case of blackouts. She did not feel it necessary to head to the armory for a stunner. In fact, simply considering it sickened her. Sheppard's fear, desperation, and constant flinching had branded themselves into her brain, and she resolved not to do anything that, though probably harmless, still felt like harm.

She headed from the room, guided by the constant chatter over the com.

----------------------------------

_Are we there yet--are we there yet--are we there yet? _

An exemplary way to be an ass, but the last time he'd tried that, Ki'vana had approached the nearest wraith and asked in almost motherly concern if he was hungry. The wraith had fed until Sheppard's newly arthritic knee collapsed him to the floor, only to stand on a perfectly fine knee after being restored by a passing drone.

John thought he might be going blind. He could barely see Ki'vana, who seemed to be fading in and out of his vision, probably thanks in part to the poor lighting that sometimes flickered. They must be in a damaged sector of the hive. Maybe this was a new task – home repair, which John had always sucked at. Give him a busted car engine to a leaky faucet any day.

They turned a corner into a slightly more, while still wanly lit, corridor where Ki'vana vanished. John's heart thudded hard.

"Oh no."

Ki'vana had never ditched him before, had always made sure he followed. This was a trick, a test. They were giving him an opening to escape just so they could catch him, beat him, kill some innocent, feed off him, stick him in a cubby...

"John?"

John blinked in alarm when Anja stepped out from an adjacent hall. Anja, dead Anja. Unless that hadn't been her who'd died prematurely. Maybe it had been some other old woman remarkably similar. Maybe they had hid Anja away and then restored her to use again and again and again whenever John was bad. His heart hammered and his body shook.

"Anja. What are you doing here? Never mind," he hurried forward, grabbing her by the wrist to start dragging her back down the hall, maybe to the kitchen or sewing room, someplace harmless where she couldn't be blamed for his actions. "You can't be seen with me. They'll punish you if they do."

"John, what are you talking about?"

--------------------------

"Stick-skinny arms and brittle bones aside, he could still stick out one of his long legs and trip me so I land flat on my face and break my nose."

Ronon rolled his eyes. He had made the mistake of saying three little words - "Sheppard is sick"- when Rodney wouldn't stop going on about the dangers of Sheppard not being in his right mind.

They were in one of the damaged sectors of the city not too far from the infirmary. The inhabited sectors had already been cleared by the other teams, putting McKay into a momentarily smug mood before falling back into paranoia. The current hallway was water-stained with what looked to be a few dead, dried sea-creatures encrusting the previously metallic walls. Once bubbling pillars were cracked, but the glass still maintained its hold on the dormant liquid.

"He might even be armed with a piece of metal or something. A shiv. And just my luck I'll be the one shanked, because if it really is the universe verses McKay, it is, thus far, really kicking my... hold up." He came to a sudden stop, then pointed right. "I'm getting something that way." He stepped back and waved Ronon through. "After you."

Ronon rolled his eyes a second time before moving on. He slowed at the low, echoing mumble of voices.

----------------------------

Teyla remained methodical in her search, moving slowly and calling out softly so as not to startle John should he be nearby. The corridor was being partially powered to help better the search. But it was not much, a pallor of illumination that seemed to do more harm than good by sharpening shadows that played tricks on the mind. Things moved out of the corner of her eye, only to still when she turned to face them. It was like combating wraith illusions.

Teyla entered into one of the wider corridors with broken pillars and flickering lights. It was more a chamber with a high ceiling and a glass wall on one side through which she could see stairs weaving back and forth up to the next level. Her mind shot back to a similar room and the same man she searched for now skittering up the walls like a true insect. Her muscles involuntarily clenched and her heart pounded.

_He is the opposite of that, the complete opposite._

She moved toward the stairs when a flicker of motion on her left pulled her attention. She whirled around to see John just entering from the other side of the chamber, keeping to the wall for support, his legs shaking and his chest heaving with labored breaths that rasped hollow in the massive room.

Teyla smiled in relief. "John."

John halted, snapping his head up. His look of confusion morphing instantly into fear startled her to a halt.

"Anja," he said. "What are you doing here? Never mind." He staggered forward to grab Teyla by the wrist and start leading her away. "You can't be seen with me. They'll punish you if they do."

Teyla followed along, not knowing why, and shook her head. "John, what are you talking about?"

His too thin, pale face with its hollow cheeks and sunken eyes flashed a nervous glance over his shoulder. "Just... trust me, all right?" he said, hoarse, frightened, and desperate. "What they did to you…" Teyla could hear him swallow. "…it was my fault. They fed off you because of me. That's why you can't be seen with me; they'll just do it again and again…I... I gotta pretend I don't like you, all right? If I do that, maybe... maybe they won't do anything…ah crap, who the hell am I kidding?" His voice cracked. "I gotta hide you…I... I can't let them... not again, please, not again."

An unseen fist felt as though it were clenching Teyla's heart. "John, colonel, it is me, Teyla." She dug her heels into the floor forcing a stop that Sheppard didn't have enough strength to fight against. He turned to her and stared, painful confusion making his face all the more sickly. Teyla twisted her wrist easily from his grasp, simultaneously capturing his hand in hers.

"You are not on the hive ship, John. You are home, safe. No one is coming for us; no one is going to hurt us." Now she was the one doing the tugging. "Please, come with me. I must take you back to the infirmary. You are sick and Dr. Beckett..."

John pulled back. "Sick?"

Teyla nodded. "Yes, from infection and..."

He blinked incomprehensibly. "In -infirmary?"

Again, Teyla nodded, more urgently. She needed to get him back while he still stood. He could hurt himself if he collapsed; Carson had said as much. "Yes, the infirmary."

John swallowed, shaking his head. "I'm... I'm not sick." Then he wheezed out a hysterical chuckle. "I'm... I'm fine…I'm perfectly fine. I don't need healing; I'm fine."

"Yes, John, you do, you are very ill."

His gentle head shaking turned frantic. "No, I'm fine. I'm just tired; I don't need to be healed."

Teyla resumed tugging. "John, you are very ill. Just come with me."

John recoiled, trying to yank his wrist from Teyla's stronger grasp. "No, please, I'm not sick, I'm not..." She could feel him shaking, see it in his shoulders, and the abject terror in his begging eyes. He gripped her wrist trying to pull her hand off while twisting his own wrist in the feeble hope of wriggling it free. His lack of strength made her want to weep, but she could not let go. "Don't put me in an alcove…I don't need it…I swear. I'm fine; I'm perfectly fine." He dug his heels into the floor, bucking back as she pulled forward. His breathing increased to ragged gulps, his pulse with it humming beneath her fingers. "Crap, please don't stick me in there! I don't need it; I don't freakin' need it…I...!"

"Teyla?" Ronon's voice. John whipped his head around, breathing hard, and placed himself in front of Teyla, forcing her back as he backed up.

Ronon entered first, followed by Rodney close behind, both men stopping at the sight of their two retreating team-mates.

"No, no, no, no, no..." John mumbled. "Oh, gosh, no." His whole body shook, his back curved in a tightening cringe, the peak of his backbone to pressing sharply against his skin. He kept one arm back herding Teyla away from the two men.

Ronon stepped forward with his head tilted to one side and his finger tensing on the trigger of his stunner. "Teeeeyla?"

Teyla had to stand on tip-toe to peer over John's shoulder, so she could shoot the runner a warning glare. "Ronon, do not even think about it. John is not going to harm anyone. He is confused and scared and..."

John moved forward so suddenly that Teyla startled and Ronon inadvertently brought his blaster up.

John halted, raising both hands in a placating manner, while shrinking back. "Please," he said, his voice reasonable yet strained. "Please, don't. Don't hurt her. I wasn't trying to escape, all right? I just lost sight of Ki'vana and I was trying to find her. You don't need to do this."

Ronon lowered his weapon. "I wasn't going to do anything."

"Yes, you just like whipping out your gun for show," Rodney sniped.

"Rodney," Teyla hissed. "Not. _Now!_"

Ronon took another step forward, then another, and John stayed where he was, shivering so hard, Teyla was surprised he didn't fly apart. When Ronon was three feet away, John straightened, resolved yet frightened, tugging down on the collar of his scrub to expose his chest.

Even in the gloom Teyla could see Ronon's face pale. He stared at John horrified, actually horrified, then looked past John to Teyla, asking without words what was going on, what he should do.

"No!" John gasped, reaching out without touching Ronon. "No, take me. Please, just... it was a mistake. You know it. I'm the one who needs to be punished. I'm the one you want in pain, right?" He twitched a sickly smile. "I'm the wraith killer. I'm the one who needs to hurt, right? I'll let you hurt me. I'll – I'll - I'll do whatever you want. I'll..." he started lowering himself to his knees on unsteady legs that gave out, dropping him the rest of the way. "I'm kneeling… I'm kneeling… I'm kneeling just like I said I would. Please…just don't… just don't…" he gasped, and his breathing hitched in a sob, "…_please don't_."

For a moment, Teyla thought Ronon was going to be sick, and she sympathized. Her stomach coiled into tight knots threatening to expel all contents. Behind Ronon, Rodney, white-faced, stood gaping and wide-eyed.

John continued his litany of begging, curling forward and rocking in growing agitation. Ronon looked down at him and, for a moment that felt too long, just stared. Then, finally, he holstered his weapon and crouched in front of his team leader.

"John?" he whispered. His hand started making its way towards Sheppard's shoulder.

That's when Sheppard crumpled, toppling onto his side in a shivering, panting heap.

Teyla snapped from her shock and ran, dropping to her knees beside Ronon and next to John. Ronon bent low taking Sheppard's face in both his hands and gently turning the man's head to establish eye contact. John's eyes were heavy-lidded slits, unfocused but still open.

"Sheppard," the Satedan breathed. "It's Ronon. You're home, you're safe. Look at me, Sheppard."

John sucked in a breath that he released on a liquid cough. "Ro... Ron-on," he rasped.

Ronon nodded. "Yeah, it's me."

"Ron... Ro..." He coughed again, hard enough to shake his body like he was having a seizure. Then his eyes slid shut and his body went limp. Teyla pressed her fingers to his neck, breathing out in relief on feeling the rapid but still steady thump of his pulse.

"He is alive," she said. "Just unconscious. I will call Dr. Beckett."

"You do that," Ronon said, gathering John into his arms. "Tell him I'll meet him half way." He lifted Sheppard easily, like the man was nothing more than sticks and cloth, and walked fast back down the corridor, taking long strides that ate up the distance.

Teyla remained kneeling. She looked over at Rodney, recalling that he was there, still staring, still gaping. His jaw snapped shut and he returned Teyla's gaze.

Teyla had never seen him so confused, so lost, so without an answer for once in his life. She wondered if she would be able to get him to move, let alone say something.

Then Rodney blinked as though waking up, even though the expression remained.

"They broke him," he stated, tone curious, eyes terrified. "They... they broke... him." He then wandered off, back the way he had come.

SGA

"They broke him. They broke him, they... they..."

"Rodney, you are overreacting. You saw what was going on. He was merely trying to protect someone," said Teyla.

"Yes, which usually involves a lot of fists flying or him stepping between a weapon and that someone... _not prostrating on the floor in humble obedience and crying!_"

Carson listened with one ear to the crackling breaths deep in John's lungs through the stethoscope pressed to the bared back. With the other ear, he kept tabs on the conversation. It was easier than having to ask any questions.

"McKay," Ronon said in that deep, rumbling way of his, like a warning growl a dog might make. "Teyla's right. You're making a big deal out of it. _Don't_."

Carson flicked his eyes to and from the three standing a few feet from Sheppard's bed, awaiting word on the man's condition and having their own little impromptu conference in the mean time. Elizabeth was standing a little off to the side wearing a plain white robe over her pajamas. Beckett had been a little surprised she hadn't started asking questions from the team, because he was certain she felt a little nervous about doing so. She _looked _nervous, and Carson didn't blame her. He'd never seen the three of them this 'disturbed' before. Worried, very worried, but never to the point of this type of tense discomfort, as though they did not know what they were supposed to be doing next, let alone be doing with themselves – like children standing before the window they'd just broke, trying to work out a cover story and failing.

Carson switched the bell of the stethoscope to the other side of John's back. He had already taken note of the darkening bruise spreading over the healing bruise across Sheppard's flank. Rodney had fallen silent, which wasn't such a feat when it was Ronon who had done the silencing.

"Why was John bowing?" Elizabeth finally got up the nerve to ask. It was a tentative question, as though speaking might set something off that would end unpleasantly.

"He was hallucinating," Teyla replied, still pale with minor shock. "He believed Ronon was a wraith and I... someone named Anja. He was trying to protect her..."

"By offering himself up to the not-wraith over there," Rodney's voice cracked, his thumb jerking in Ronon's direction. "And when he thought that wasn't going to work, he dropped to his knees and worshiped like a good little whipped colonel."

"McKay!" Ronon snarled. Carson was starting to reconsider his decision not to call Kate in. A buffer would be needed if the three team members didn't relax. And it just felt plain _off_ that Ronon was being the most sensitive about it. Okay, so they all were in their own way, but Ronon at a level Carson had only ever seen when the Satedan had been brought back from his home world, beaten but alive.

Actually, it made a wee bit of sense. Sheppard had thought he was a wraith. He had offered himself to Ronon thinking that. He had bowed to the not-wraith, begging on hands and knees, thinking that. Delusional or not, it had to make for one bloody touchy issue, possibly the equivalent of Ronon having beaten John senseless for no reason.

Carson removed his stethoscope and had the two nurses hold John in place so he could carefully probe the protruding ribs. He already knew the location of the healing breaks and how far along they were. As expected, two ribs that had been previously cracked gave way to Carson's careful pressure. He'd suspected as much. He helped the nurses move Sheppard carefully to check for any more fresh bruises, indicating possible breaks or cracks. So far, it seemed the two ribs were the only problem.

"Look," McKay said after a moment. "It's just... I mean... Isn't this a bad thing? Bowing? Sheppard wouldn't _bow_."

"He would to save someone else," Ronon stated.

"You are worrying over nothing, McKay," said Teyla sensibly, albeit in a rather stressed tone that begged Rodney to just drop it already.

It wasn't about the show of obeisance. Carson didn't need Kate here to tell him as much. What he had heard was plenty: bowing, weeping, crying, and, above all, offering himself to be fed on. It probably only lasted minutes, yet felt too long. They had peeked into a rather disturbing glimpse of Sheppard's time on the hive ship. Carson was only hearing about it in bits and pieces, but enough to feel disturbed himself. He couldn't imagine what the other three had actually _seen_.

Sheppard widening the collar of the scrub, maybe even lifting it to his collar-bones, leaving his chest open for the taking made Carson shudder imperceptibly. Had the colonel been scared or resigned?

The real fact was - this was Sheppard they were talking about. He just didn't do the things the others were describing-- exempting the saving-someone-else part. It was easy to forget the frailty that was being human, because some humans had a way of making it easy to forget that. Ronon, for example, and also John. They mouth off, make some witty but asinine retort, or just lash out with fists – now _that_ Carson could imagine. What he didn't want to imagine was what it had taken to make John beg and shed tears at the same time.

Carson finally had the nurses help him settle John on his back. He lowered the scrub shirt and made sure the oxygen was in place firmly but comfortably. "I've got the lad settled," he announced. "So no sense for the lot of you to be hanging around here."

"Will he be all right?" Rodney stammered.

Carson sighed. He hated this part since he usually didn't have a definitive answer. "He has a fever of 102 that if it stays put – or better yet starts going down – he should be fine. The congestion's a little thicker and he managed to turn two cracked ribs into two broken ribs. Hopefully, only because he had a bit of a bad spill, am I right?" He gave them pointed looks, Ronon especially. He would never suspect in a million years that they would hurt Sheppard intentionally. Accidents, however, happened, especially when it came to trying to calm a delirious soldier.

"Probably when he passed out," Ronon supplied. "He fell on his side."

"And you said so yourself that his bones are about as strong as dried twigs," Rodney said. "But even that shouldn't have happened. He was being too damn docile for any kind of injury to be the result. He fell sideways, while on his _knees_, to the freakin floor!"

Carson raised both his hands, patting the air. "Rodney, you need to settle down. That's just what comes with having poor bone mass, and it's being rectified."

"Good to know. Now, how the hell did he get out in the first place? I thought there were guards at the door!" McKay shrilled.

Again, Carson sighed. It was minutely easier forcing patience this time around. McKay was tired, wired, unable to process, and needing to speak with John, one on one, in order to do so. Except he wouldn't be able to until Sheppard's fever abated. "There were guards, Rodney, at the infirmary entrance. But, believe it or not, Sheppard managed to find the back door. Yes, the infirmary has a back door; we just never use it. I'm thinking Sheppard passed it, it opened, so he literally took the road less traveled. Oh, and before you start in on my night staff, I didn't tell them to keep a direct eye on the colonel, just to check him more often. Even sick, the bugger moves stealthy and quick. But we have him back and settled, and I've assigned someone to keep a permanent eye on him. Plus, we now have the back exit locked. So you've no need to fret. I want the lot of you back in bed and asleep for the rest of the night. I'll prescribe you a mild sedative if I have to since I know it won't be easy, but I'd at least like you to try. Sheppard's safe thanks to you; so you've no need to keep worrying about him. And I'd better not catch you at his bed side in the morning, you hear me?"

The three team members reluctantly nodded. Carson nodded back. "Good, now off with you."

They left with a lot of hesitating and many backwards glances at Sheppard sleeping. Although it took a little longer than it probably should have, the three eventually left. Elizabeth moved over to Carson, looking from the departing team to John, then to Beckett. Neither one said anything. Nothing to say except the redundant and Carson was sure Elizabeth didn't have the energy for redundancy, either. Like him, she hadn't had to witness what the others had seen to understand the reason behind what outsiders might perceive as "overreacting". Maybe it was overreacting, maybe it wasn't. For the sake of the city and earth, it was better to overreact than go complacent. For John's sake, they would need to keep the overreacting internal.

TBC...


	15. Fifty Cent Therapy

A/N: Apologies for the slight lateness of this. I kept getting distracted. More thanks to my beta Drufan.

Ch. 14

Fifty Cent Therapy

Ki'vana was waiting for him. John could see her as a hazy shadow on the other side of the cell, but he couldn't move to follow her. His limbs were like lead holding him down, making it impossible to so much as roll onto his other side. He tried. He squirmed and struggled, but it was as if hands were holding him in place. He smelled things and heard things, voices and beeping. He felt pinches in his skin and an inability to suck in enough air as though his lungs were lined with cotton.

This wasn't the cell. A cubby - he was in a storage alcove. He remembered someone saying he was sick and that he needed to be taken to... someplace he could heal. One of the alcoves. John's heart fluttered fast in his chest forcing his lungs to pant in more air than there was room for. He could almost hear the wailing, far off and echoing, people screaming in pain. John squirmed out of instinctual terror. He couldn't be here. He couldn't do this again.

_John, lad, you need to calm down. Listen to my voice. Come on, you can do it. Just relax, breathe._

John arched back. A sound like a liquid whimper bubbled out of his throat. He just needed a little room, enough to pull his arm up to dig his nails into the mucus confining him. Claw it, tear it, form holes, make space to move, to stop being crushed.

_John! Listen to me, lad! It's Carson. You need to relax and breathe, in and out. Come on, breathe lad, breathe! You're home and safe. Come on John!_

John twisted, curling then arching again. The cocoon was caving in, pressing on his chest and throat. He didn't know who the hell the voice thought he was kidding. John would have loved nothing more than to breathe.

_We're going to have to drain his lungs..._

Those unseen hands were back, gripping him by the arms and shoulders. Cool air brushed over his sweat-slicked bare skin until he shivered. Then there was pain, sharp and burning in his back, and seeping into his lungs. He tried to scream but could only manage a guttural moan.

_Easy, lad. We're almost done._

The pain vanished from one side only to burn on the other side. John whimpered since it was all he had air for.

Then he could breathe. The pain diminished and air flowed more freely into his lungs, the mucus of the alcove spreading, giving him space. He sighed in relief when the hands lifted away and warmth surrounded him.

_There you go, John. Much better, I bet._

John didn't know why, but he nodded, even though he'd heard somewhere that it wasn't considered healthy when you answered the voices in your head.

---------------------------------

_Come on, John, open your eyes._

Like hell John was going to open his eyes. It was easier having them closed, the wailing and pleading so distant he could almost ignore them. Sometimes they went away all together, just for a moment, possibly because everyone screaming had finally passed out.

He felt fingers touch his cheek, joined by a slight weight on his shoulder. _John, open your eyes. Come on, just for a wee bit then I'll leave you alone._

John continued to refuse. This could be a trick. They'd gotten him to bow, so now they expected him to jump at every little command-- like a lap dog, like a trained circus monkey, like a good little inferior human.

_John... Colonel Sheppard, open your eyes._

The touch moved from his cheek to his right eyelid, pulling at the thin skin. John didn't have the strength to fight it, let alone barely any to squint against the white radiance stabbing through his eyeball into his skull. A somewhat round shape thankfully obstructed most of the light. Curiosity got the better of him. Storage wasn't usually this damn bright and the faces hovering in front of him were supposed to be corpse pale, not deep fleshy. He forced the other eyelid open and blinked tears and sleep film until the flesh-colored blur coalesced into Beckett's pleased face.

Beckett. Crap, he wasn't in an alcove on the hive ship. He was home, had been home for some time.

"There you go," Carson said. "I know that was harder than it should've been, but I appreciate it. You can go back to sleep, now."

John's heart stuttered hard. He didn't want to go back to sleep considering where he ended up when he dreamed. He shook his head adamantly, shoving energy he didn't have into his arm and still managing only a few inches when he lifted it off the bed. It was enough, however, for Carson to see and take the limp limb by the wrist, holding it gently. That one minuscule movement sucked John dry of strength, turning the fight against sleep painful.

"John," Carson said. "It's all right to go back to sleep. You're safe and I won't be far. If you start to dream, I'll wake you, I promise, all right? You just rest, now. You need it."

Sheppard didn't have a choice. Sleep pulled him in like a rock in quicksand. He could still feel Carson lightly gripping his wrist, hear his voice promise safety. John held to it like a life preserver, so that when he did dream, he knew it was only a dream.

---------------------------------

John opened his eyes without any prompting. Ironically, he was tired of sleep, and yet felt like he could sleep for days. He pulled in a deep breath until his lungs caught on a tickle that incited a cough, which led to the muscles of his ribs cramping. He curled in toward the pain and felt the pull of tubes and wires, some in unpleasant places. He felt a tube taped to the side of his face curving up into his nose and down his throat, the cannula under his nose feeding him oxygen, and the pinch of heart monitor pads.

The need for so many apparatuses stuck to him meant only one thing – he'd gone down hill at some point in time, the itch in his lungs the culprit.

A chestnut haired young woman with a round, pudgy face and wearing light red scrubs materialized through the privacy curtain, flashing him a cheery smile.

"Good morning, Colonel. Well, good afternoon, actually." She poured water from a plastic pitcher into a cup with a straw. "We were starting to wonder when you were going to wake up. Just let me check a few things, then I'll get Dr. Beckett." She held the straw within reach of his mouth, allowing four sips before pulling it away. "Not too much. Doctor's orders."

John couldn't have cared less if he'd been allowed one sip. The itch in his throat was gone and that's all that mattered. The nurse checked monitors, slapped on a blood pressure cuff, then peeled it off with another smile. "Everything looks good." She vanished beyond the curtain, taking her overstated cheeriness with her. John was just about to start dozing when Carson drew the curtains back.

"There's our prodigal colonel," he said with a grin. "How're you feeling today, lad? Any pain? Headaches, nausea, trouble breathing?" He pressed the button that raised the head of the bed.

The ache in John's flank continued to throb. He slid his lead-laden hand over to it, as though the pain really could be smothered by touch. The action was answer enough for Carson and he produced a needle to inject into the IV port. "How's that, then?"

The throb diminished making it even easier to breathe. Carson readied his stethoscope, sliding it down John's shirt front to press to his chest, and then he had the chestnut-haired nurse lift him enough to press the bell to either side of his back.

"Still some congestion but clearing up nicely," Carson said. "A day or two and you should be as right as rain. I apologize for all the accessories, but you were quite ill for a number of days – five to be exact – and I didn't want it setting you back too badly. Hence the feeding tube. But seeing as how you're doing better, I'll be taking it out. Just this tube for now. And though I know you're probably sick of it I need you to get a little more rest. Supper time's not too far off and I plan to rouse you for a bit of broth, see how you handle it, all right?"

John nodded. Yes, he was sick of sleep, but he would sleep for a week if it meant one less damn tube stuck in him. It was a seconds-long process sliding the tube from his throat and nose, one that sent him gagging over the bed-side while still managing to keep what the tube had given him down. Creepy and humiliating as a feeding tube was, he preferred it to the hollow, devouring ache of an empty stomach cannibalizing his own body.

Carson jotted something on the clipboard, then bade John sleep with a parting pat on his shoulder that made him quail.

-------------------------------

John awoke in the morning for once. Not afternoon, not early evening, but at seven am Atlantis time. Carson seemed pleased by this since reestablishing normal sleeping patterns was a pain in the ass for anyone. John always seemed to have particular difficulty with it during his time in the infirmary, skewing it later on once released.

Breakfast was one of those liquid insta-things – chocolate flavored, not pink since pink wasn't a pleasant color to behold at the moment. Pink, like diluted red. Red, on the right occasion and when the right hue, made him want to puke. Sometimes he swore he could smell metallic meat.

As John sucked breakfast through a straw by leaning forward to reach that straw, Carson hovered. Except it wasn't his usual hover, it was little too tense, his hands wandering from crossing in front of his chest to stuffing themselves into the pockets of his lab coat, as though he were trying to wrangle them in from fiddling with the monitoring equipment. John managed to refrain from pointing it out, though it was hard. Carson's unease was making him nervous. There was something the doctor wasn't telling him, obviously. And while a part of John wanted to know what that something was, another part was too terrified to find out.

When Sheppard finished his insta-breakfast, he let Carson help ease him back, then waited as the quarter-full glass was removed and for the inevitable unpleasant news to bomb-shell. Carson knew better than to keep anything from him. Hell, the entire expedition knew. Rodney complained of Sheppard's child-like petulance when it came to being kept out of the loop, but that was only half the issue. The other half, more like a massive chunk, was that Sheppard had always hated it when people pussy-footed around. The bad-stuff gets found out in the end, eventually, and no one appreciates those kinds of good intentions.

Beckett finally caved into fiddling, so fiddled.

John gently cleared his throat. "Everything okay, doc?"

"Everything looks fine."

"That's not what I meant."

Carson paused in his fiddling but wouldn't look at John.

The curtains parted just enough for Kate Heightmeyer to slip through with her white plastic notebook and a blue spiral notebook clutched to her chest. Answer given, it was time to talk again. John's full stomach clenched a little. It wasn't that he wasn't up to talking, or that he didn't want to. He was still a potential security risk and had intel they needed to know... sort of. If one could call a self-hating wraith queen and her abused elves skinning animals to cobble clothes intel. More like disgustingly-fascinating-in-a-nauseating-sort-of-way fun-facts.

Talking about it wasn't a problem. Thinking about it to talk about it was. Things were a little jumbled in his head, with no starting point, no stopping point, incidents he couldn't decide whether they had been real or a dream, incidents he had yet to understand, and incidents...

Incidents he was trying very hard to forget.

John shifted, trying to get comfortable without looking like he was uncomfortable. The movement spiked a sharp stab of pain in his ribs, making him wince. Carson was on it shooting medication from a syringe into the IV port. "That should help take the edge off, colonel."

John gingerly touched his side that felt as tender as a fresh break. "What the hell did I do, roll on my side wrong? I don't remember this particular area giving me this much trouble." He saw the quick exchange of uneasy expressions between Heightmeyer and Carson out of the corner of his eye. They were definitely keeping something from him. The kind of something they would tip-toe around hoping he wouldn't notice, despite the fact that he wasn't stupid and had noticed from the start.

He'd been sick, no big _duh_ there. But since Beckett was optimistic about all the test results, then John could omit that he was dying. Not that Beckett would keep something like that from him to begin with. The current discomfort was definitely along the lines of knowing something they didn't want him to know. Something they had heard him mumble during delirium, something they had seen him do, something he had almost done. John's heart picked up speed and the monitor tattled.

Kate smiled in that infuriatingly calming way of hers. "Good morning, John."

"What did I do?" he blurted, because he wasn't going to let them tip-toe. "Or say or... is something wrong? Because you two are kind of acting different."

The two doctors stiffened and did another glance-exchange, this one more strained than the last. Carson gave John a look that was a mask of calm hiding nothing. "Why would you say that, lad?"

John opened his mouth to tell Carson to just cut the bull when Kate cut him off with a heavy sigh. "Because he's hypersensitive, hyper-focused, and would know if a fly sneezed somewhere. Carson, I already told you there's no point in holding anything back. If our reactions hadn't given something away then someone else's actions would have, colonel." She leaned forward. "It's all right. You did nothing wrong. You weren't aware..."

John's eyes widened. His heart raced faster, the monitor announcing it, and his breaths had a hard time keeping up. He knew it, he had done something, and he knew exactly what that something was. "Ah crap, what did I try to do, blow up the damn city? Carry people off?" He swallowed against a rapidly drying throat being rubbed raw by his shallow, panting breaths. "Assassinate... someone? I was right... wasn't I?" he gasped. "I was... what did... I do... what did...?" The world tilted and pulsed with flecks of light and darkness. Something was pressed against his face pushing cool oxygen into his mouth and down his throat to deprived lungs.

"Easy, lad, easy. Deep breaths, in and out." A hand on his shoulder pushed him forward, his knees drawing up on instinct. "It's not that at all. You had a bit of a delirious moment during your illness and wandered off, nothing more. You didn't try to sabotage Atlantis, alert the wraith, or any of that tripe."

"What did... I do," John panted.

"Nothing," Kate replied. "As Carson said, you wandered off. You were remembering something, that's all, and the only one you hurt was yourself when you ran out of steam to keep going and passed out."

"No secret wraith manipulation involved, colonel," Beckett assured with a way more believable smile.

It wasn't reassuring. Breathing came easier but his heart refused to settle down. "What did I... what did I hallucinate?"

Kate's expression turned apologetic. "I'm not sure, I wasn't there. Your team said that you were trying to protect someone..."

John's heart slammed, knocking the breath from him. "My team?"

Kate's eyes slid shut in a grimace, then opened, again apologetic. "They said you were... _attempting_ to save someone's life..."

"Attempting how?"

Carson winced. "Pleading her case... very, very fervently. Which you'd _better_ not make a bloody big deal out of. Look, lad, I know you're a little shell shocked and are probably about to have a panic attack thinking about what your team saw that you'd rather they didn't. But what's done is done and there was no harm involved to anyone or anything seen that had made the others think less of you. So just get all that rubbish out of your head, since it won't do you any good to dwell on it."

John looked between Kate and Carson, and realized that he was shaking. He settled his gaze on Carson. "I can't get it out, all right? I didn't save her. What else did they see? Anything?" His breathing was, once again, trying to keep up with his heart. If it hadn't been for the oxygen mask he would have passed out, and wished he would. If he'd reenacted that scenario, then had the whole package been included or just bits and pieces? Had they seen what he'd been willing to offer? His failure? What he'd ended up kneeling for afterwards?

Had they seen him succumb for the sake of the self? The start of what might have been if the queen hadn't ditched him?

Why had she left him behind when she had him where she wanted him? Why hadn't she taken him with her?

"What did they see!" John snarled.

Carson flinched as if John had taken a swing at him. "Nothing! They saw you doing what you could to save another. You offered yourself, and you bowed, but they understand why..."

"And that's all that matters," Kate interjected, "so you need to focus on that and try to relax."

It was so much easier said than done that John felt like hitting something. Damn it! They didn't know…they just... didn't know. He'd been one more voluntary kneel, one more act of obedience, just to make it all stop, from talking. A little info here, a little there, building on layers as the queen patiently extracted it like picking bark off a tree until the bone-pale insides were laid bare. First Atlantis would've been revealed, then earth. Maybe not in days, maybe not in centuries, but eventually. Kneeling just to get Vee'rana to stop had been the start. There was always a start, and it was always the small stuff.

Kate looked up at Beckett. "Could you give us a moment, Carson?"

Beckett nodded, shooting Sheppard a worried look. "Aye. I'll be close by. You call if you need anything?"

"I will," Kate said. Beckett departed, slipping through the curtains, and leaving Sheppard at Heightmeyer's mercy.

John stared at her, every muscle tense, his heart-rate up, and skirting the edge of rapid. He felt suddenly claustrophobic, like an animal in a box instead of a cage, a shrinking box. He wanted out but doubted he had the strength to so much as roll out of bed.

Then it hit him, with a lot of shame, that he was panicking. This wasn't the hive ship, this wasn't the cell, and Kate wasn't some ancient wraith-witch racist toward her own kind. Yet the realization did nothing to push back the shrinking walls. He still wanted out.

"John?" Kate said, the poster woman for all-suffering patience.

John pulled the mask down to hang from his neck so he could let air rush from his lungs on a sharp, shuddery exhale. "I don't really think I'm up for a little chat right now," he said, and he was being sincere, not stubborn. He was painfully aware of the need-to-know bases, yet it seemed every time it came around to spilling his guts, he ended up shattering into too many pieces that took too long to fit back together.

"I know," Kate said. "But it's mandatory. That's why I came up with this little gem of a stop-gap solution." She took the blue spiral notebook and placed it on John's lap. "I want you to try writing you experience down, see if that helps. Doesn't matter if it's organized neatly or in pieces. I'll be the only one reading it. The SGC's main concern is the same as your own concern – information leaks, which you already confirmed didn't happen, an alteration to you psyche that could make you a potential hazard, which, as far as I'm concerned, you're not. But they still want better assurances and details. Anything you deem personal will remain personal so long as it's not anything that can be considered a risk. If you want, or if you're willing, we can discuss some of the things you write down, but only when you feel up to it. Think of this as killing two birds with one stone. The SGC gets their report and you can say what needs to be said, when and how you need to say it. I know some aspects will be tougher to recall then others, so get out what you can, what you feel is most important to talk about. And you don't even have to start at the beginning if you don't want."

John looked down at the plain, thirty-five cent collection of wire, cardboard, and wide-rule paper. "Huh." It was like more tip-toeing, but on his terms. He liked the idea; he just didn't know how effective it was going to be. He gave Kate a wry look. "I have bad handwriting, you know."

Kate shrugged. "Mine could be considered a second language."

John opened the notebook to the first blank page. "I can write anything I want?"

"So long as it involves what the SGC wants to know. You can poke fun at McKay between the lines if you want to." Kate fell silent, probably to give John time to mull over the concept of keeping a torture journal. He would need to jot down the basics – daily life on the hive, use of slaves, etc. Morticia the wraith oddity would be a little trickier. John still had yet to determine if anything about her had been sincere or if she was one hell of an actress.

The rest – Anja, the kids, Vee'rana, and all the lovely little mind games – yeah, definitely personal. He would just have to be vague on the details.

"John," Kate said, breaking the moment. "Who was it you were trying to save?" The question sounded almost conversational. Looking at Heightmeyer, relaxed without too many expectations, it was easy to think it a casual little chit-chat.

"Her name was Anja," John said. He closed the notebook. "I didn't save her. She died." _Because I wouldn't let that Vee'rana bitch rape me._ There was no way he could, or would, say that out loud. He had breakfast he needed to keep down.

"Was she a friend?" Kate asked.

"She was someone I made the mistake of talking to."

"Why was it a mistake?"

John kept his mouth shut so tight the muscles of his jaw started to ache.

"They used her against you," Kate said for him. Damn, she was good. "Did they do that often?"

John's lip twitched, curling in a sneer. "They knew how to make me a good little human."

Kate said nothing to that. Instead, she leaned forward, setting a pen on top of the notebook. "Tell me about it when you're ready. Feel free to use as many derogatory terms as you feel is necessary."

Heightmeyer got up to leave. "There's no deadline for any of this. If you feel like you need to talk out loud instead, let Carson know and he'll pass the word along to me. Any time, even three in the morning." She then left.

John looked down at the notebook and black-inked pen, and then opened it.

Kate was _very_ good.

TBC...


	16. Two Soldiers

A/N: Holiday cookies for everyone! Sprinkles, frosting... the works.

Ch. 15

Two Soldiers

It was like writing a textbook – a very crappy textbook – on the everyday habits and societal structure of wraith. It wasn't exactly formal, a lot choppy and full of swears because without some form of venting John wouldn't have been able to get as far as he had. And it felt pretty good in a childish sort of way.

He stuck to the basics, just like he'd promised himself he would. The sewing room, butcher shop, wraith worshipers, and above all Morticia's lack of motivation in making him want to talk. Not being a psychologist, he did the best he could in explaining her apparent lack of motherly love toward her own children. There was denying the child a wanted toy. Then there was buying that toy to dangle in the child's face without ever handing it over. John had to wonder what Heightmeyer would make of that. He would probably have to ask her.

John pulled his hand from the page to twist and rotate the kinks out of his stiffening wrist.

"Hey Sheppard."

John simultaneously slammed the notebook closed while whipping his head around to see Ronon standing within the partition, arms folded and posture a little on the rigid side. John didn't think about it when he pushed the notebook under his pillow. It had become ingrained as an unconscious habit because of one too many nurses tilting or craning their heads just right for a peek at what he was writing, likely thinking it poetry or some novel/biography, and that tragedy always brought out a man's sensitive side.

"Hey Ronon," John said, easing back into the pillows. He'd been wondering who would be next on the list of visitors. He'd been expecting a single visit by his whole team since that was the norm, and would have preferred it. Small talk was always easier within a group since there was more than one to eventually break the awkward silences. One on one made it feel like a game of chicken, each knowing something needed to be said, something big, but scrabbling for mundane topics to avoid saying it until one of them finally cracked. It wasn't the cracking part that sucked, but everything else in between. Sheppard didn't really have the energy for it.

Ronon uncrossed his arms to grab the stool next to the bedside table and swing it around to the bedside. He more or less straddled it with his heels on the lower bar and his hands planted firmly on his knees. He was silent for a moment before stating the obvious.

"You look better."

The difference between one on one with Ronon as compared to everyone else was that nothing was small talk. He didn't point things out just to be talking. Everything he said had a purpose, like a verbal progress report. If Ronon thought Sheppard looked a little less like warmed-over crap, then he did, which meant one less thing to worry about it terms of health matters.

John lifted and rolled his shoulders to help ease the ache in his shoulder blades and back. "Doesn't feel like I'm better." As though to prove the point, his lungs tickled until he coughed and had to reach for his water, which Ronon handed to him. The fever had dissipated but it wasn't gone, and his congestion was hanging on for dear life.

"Probably better than the way you were before," Ronon countered. "You could barely stay conscious most of the time."

John took a sip from the plastic cup. "Then I guess I am getting better. So how have you been? Teyla tells me you've been going with a lot of different teams off-world."

"Not a lot," Ronon replied. "I tried to go it alone when I could, mostly to find you."

"And now?"

Ronon shrugged. "Haven't been going off as much, except when I'm bored. I think I'm finally getting used to staying in one place."

John chuckled softly. "So, in other words, you're getting soft."

Ronon shrugged, to John's surprise, a little abashedly, and that made him chuckle louder until it morphed into a cough. Thankfully, he still had his water and took deeper sips until the tickle cleared.

"I saw you kneel, Sheppard, to the wraith."

A gasp sent the water down the wrong pipe to be gagged back up. John doubled over, sputtering and choking, watching Ronon out of the corner of his eye, half expecting him to morph into a wraith or whip out his blaster and shoot him. John wasn't sure why, just that the statement was so much like what he would hear in a dream, flat and underlined with accusation.

Except for the look on Ronon's face: more inquisitive than accusing, as though he'd never heard of such a thing and found it more fascinating than shocking. Which was even odder since this was Ronon.

"Kneel?" John echoed, cringing at the small onslaught of memories. He could almost feel the cold of the floor seeping through his pant legs to bite his knees.

Ronon nodded. "Yeah. You were hallucinating while you were sick..."

"Carson told me," John interjected stiffly. "So what of it?" His nerves buzzed with irritation, while his heart thudded with fear. Of all the people he'd rather have not see him in the basement of the lowest he could go, Ronon topped the list. It was a laughable comparison, but Ronon was like the popular kid in school, the one everyone wanted to be like, the one who could do no wrong, and the one people went to great lengths to impress. There was an almost unconscious attitude that if Ronon could do it, then it was possible. He survived being hunted by the wraith for seven years, so John should have been able to keep from kneeling before the wraith queen voluntarily.

So of all those who would be less than pleased with John's actions on the hive, Ronon would be the most likely to get pissed. Again, an unfair assessment sticking the man into his own personal stereotype, but John couldn't help it. Dex was hard not to admire considering all he'd been through and survived.

"Nothing," Ronon replied innocently, then rubbed his palms back and forth over his thighs. "It's just – at the time, when I saw it – it looked like you were tying to save someone's life. I was just kind of wondering if you did."

John blinked in surprise. Ronon looked so much like a kid right then, a shy kid asking a question he wasn't sure if it was okay to ask. A few of John's defensive walls crumbled and he relaxed a little. Very little. Thinking back hurt too much to feel any kind of relaxed. In fact, he couldn't speak thanks to the growing tightness in his throat and his hammering heart making it hard to breathe, so he just shook his head rigidly.

Ronon seemed to sense his growing distress and nodded in return, the picture of complete understanding. Words weren't needed; they both knew how much it sucked. The rest John didn't want to talk about, like how it was his fault because he wouldn't let himself get raped. There was no way he could have gotten all that out even if he'd wanted to.

Thankfully, this was Ronon he was talking to, who didn't press the matter. "I'm glad you're back," he said instead, as heartfelt as he was going to get. John had to admit it was pretty heartfelt. He relaxed more, twinged with a modicum of guilt over misconstrued expectations, but more than that feeling warmth over the simple statement fat with sincerity, not tainted by concerns that he had been broken or betrayed Atlantis; no wondering if he was a basket case.

Such blatant honesty as Ronon's had merits like that.

"Thanks," John said. Then added, part as a joke but part out of paranoid curiosity, "I didn't give away any vital information while I was delirious, did I?"

Ronon shook his head. "Nope. Just the bowing thing."

John snorted. "Nice to hear I lasted at least that much longer. I don't think the SGC is going to buy anything Heightmeyer has to say about me not being a potential liability. They'll probably boot me off of Atlantis just for bowing by choice."

Now it was Ronon's turn to snort. "They really that stupid?"

"No, I'm just being paranoid..."

"Everyone gives in eventually."

John flinched and stiffened. "Are you saying I would have?" He wasn't offended, he really wanted to know. He knew there was a chance, a very high chance, he would have, but had preferred living in ignorant bliss for as much as he could.

Ronon bunched his brow. "Yeah," he stated as though it should have been obvious. "Back on Sateda we had a Specialist division who were trained for interrogation only. Even had a friend who joined that division. I'd always thought it was a matter of making people talk that was the real skill. He told me it wasn't about making people talk. Everyone eventually talked. It was about 'when.' He used to talk about his task master, how the man had once forced a confession from a murderer in less than a minute. He said all you need is a weakness, and once that weakness is found you exploit it. The killer's weakness was his pride. My friend's task master pretended to be a scribe that wanted to write the man's story, so the man talked."

"Slick," John said.

Ronon nodded. "My friend even taught me a few tricks. The wraith would have made you talk, Sheppard, one way or another. Maybe not right away or all at once, but it was going to happen."

John licked suddenly dry lips while his palms slicked with sweat. "That's... That's what the queen... she'd said something along those lines."

Ronon's large hand drifted toward John's shoulder. When John recoiled the hand pulled reluctantly away. "And if anyone had blamed you for it, they'd be idiots. Your SGC especially."

More like jerks still scrounging for excuses to put someone else in command. As much as he'd tried not to think about it, John knew damn well he would have talked, probably within one or two more days. Just like they told you in Special Ops training: if you get caught, you either find a way to escape or get your captors to kill you, because you _will_ talk, one way or another. It might be one little measly thing – like the kind of chopper you rode in on – but the enemy took what they could get and used it for all it was worth. Hell, they'd use your mother's maiden name against you if they could (which they probably could if they had Internet connection, and wouldn't that just suck if all of Western civilization fell because you liked talking about your mom.)

"I didn't talk, though," John said. Because, well, it just made him feel better hearing it out loud, confirming it constantly so that no one would forget.

"Why not?"

John swallowed back the desire to bristle over what wasn't an insult or demand. Ronon's tone had been, once again, curious. He even leaned forward with a little anticipation.

"We were attacked," John said. "Had to abandon ship. Then the queen ditched us and that's all I know."

Ronon's brow wrinkled. "Weird."

"Yeah, very weird. But," Sheppard added with a tentative smile, "at least we know I wasn't left behind to secretly infiltrate the base." Actually, he still wasn't quite sure about that, and doubted he would be until he was either killed or died of old age - non-prematurely. Except he didn't really hold out for dying of old age, not at the rate he was going. He swallowed tightly, dropping the smile. "I, uh... I think I would have talked soon. I'm pretty sure I would have fought it, but I was really tired..." His gaze darted to his distorted reflection in the bed rail. "Is it all right if I ask you how you did it? How you managed to survive seven years on the run?"

The heavy moment of silence made him internally wince until he was ready to take the question back. But he needed to know. There was the will to live and the means to live. John had had neither, and yet here he was, alive and kicking, unable to say it was because he had done something right. If he had done something right, he'd be alive by his own doing or dead.

"A lot of it was instinct," Ronon said. "And anger. At least in the beginning. If I was going to die, it wasn't going to be by their hands. I think the rest of the time it was just habit. I'd gone so far, might as well keep going. To tell you the truth, I have no idea why I lasted as long as I did. I've never had the luxury of being able to sit down and think about it. The one time I did, I still couldn't figure it out. The only thing I came to realize was that I should be dead, but I wasn't."

John snapped his head up, startled.

Ronon continued. "I figure I must have done something right."

John's heart dropped like a rock into his stomach, and he said without realizing, letting the words tumble out, "I didn't do anything right."

The Satedan's features softened to the most kindly John had ever seen. Sympathetic, understanding, but devoid of pity as though at some point he, too, had contemplated what John believed now. "Knowing you," he nodded, "you tried. Looked for a way out, fought, said stuff that got you hurt. Sometimes trying's all you got."

"But it made things worse," John countered.

Ronon stared at him in that hard, penetrating way of his. A look that made it hard to meet his gaze, sometimes, as though he might see something that wasn't meant to be seen. "Sometimes it does."

John did meet his gaze, wanting to know more, to find assurance in _something_, but he couldn't bring himself to ask anything. Ronon hadn't pushed, so neither would he. It was hard, though. John wasn't even sure what it was he was hoping for, looking for. Most likely some kind of redemption while doubting he deserved it. Maybe some kind of resolve, or problem. He almost laughed out loud considering he might actually _want_ himself to be compromised, except it wasn't that funny since it would have made a hell of a lot more sense. It had all just ended so... _not_ how it should have ended.

Maybe that was the point. Make him wonder, keep him guessing, pick himself apart with probabilities until he stuffed himself into a corner or blew out his own brains. The point? Control. She owned his ass even when she didn't have him with her.

John snickered, digging his fingers into the mattress. It seemed a bit of a stretch but, hey, she'd gone quite out of her way to make him question every little thing he did. Why not make it a parting gift?

"Sheppard?" Ronon said, narrow-eyed. "You all right?"

"No," John coughed. "Not really. See, the day the queen ditched us, I woke up thinking today was the day she was finally going to rip my skull inside out. It doesn't feel right, Ronon, it doesn't make any damn freakin' sense!"

"Then stop thinking about it."

John looked at him helplessly. "I don't know how." Then shook his head. "I'm really not supposed to be here. The queen had made it very clear that I was going to be her guest for a long, _long_ time. Then," he tossed up his hands to let them fall to the mattress, "she leaves me _behind_. Don't get me wrong, I kind of prefer it that way, but it's a little messed up, don't you think? Like she doesn't have her priorities straight. Like she's _up_ to something."

"Maybe you're looking at it too deep," Ronon said. "Maybe she couldn't bring you along."

"Maybe. So why didn't she kill me..." The end of his sentence was cut off by more coughing.

Ronon shrugged. "To try again later?"

John snorted at that. "Somehow I doubt it." He then closed his eyes, the coughing, confusion and agitation draining from him and leaving him dry. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I know I'm kind of getting into the negative here without giving the positive a chance. But this queen... Ronon, she was smart, damn smart. Smarter than any queen I've come across. For every step I took, she was ten steps faster. If you'd met her, you'd get it. Everything she did she did with a purpose. So it's hard not to try and find a purpose with me being home, and it won't stop freaking me out."

Ronon scooted the stool forward enough so he could lean with his arms folded on the bed rail. "Maybe _she_ did do something wrong," he said.

John looked at him incredulously. "Again, I doubt it."

"Don't. Everyone – everything – makes mistakes. Life'll bow to you one moment then toss a stick in your path to trip on the next. You said she was attacked, so maybe that's where she went wrong. It went down hill fast with nothing she could do about it except for what she did, and you're here now because life had finally tossed that stick her way."

John stared. "That was almost poetic."

"Something my mother once told me."

Sheppard smiled. It was a weak smile, but managed to exist because – to his own surprise – the words kind of helped. He still wasn't sure about squat, yet at least he had something else to consider beyond being screwed, and right now he would take it. Maybe it would even let him sleep.

"Don't let Rodney ever call you idiot," he said.

"He knows better," Ronon replied.

"I'm just saying. You're a wise man, Ronon Dex."

The Satedan grinned.

-----------------------------------

Ronon was feeling a little smug and couldn't help it as he walked out of the infirmary. He wasn't a conversationalist, everyone said so, and the concept of "let's talk about your feelings to feel better" felt like a cheery form of interrogation using invocations of well being to bring about a confession.

Which, in Sheppard's current case, it kind of was. Heightmeyer had said as much when she'd approached Ronon in the gym to talk about his upcoming visit with John. Sheppard being in enemy hands and possibly compromised, the SGC's concern, matters of security, and so on she'd made casual mention of as though that weren't the big picture. To her it probably wasn't. Making sure Sheppard hadn't shattered was her priority. Ronon, however, did see the big picture and the big picture was the continuing safety of Atlantis. What had to be done had to be done, and Sheppard needed to talk.

Ronon, however, had resolved to be nice about it. This wasn't an interrogation and Sheppard wasn't an idiot – he knew what was at stake. Ronon was fairly confident, according to Sheppard's somewhat relaxed state after their little chat, that he'd pulled it off quite nicely. In all truth, he'd been more intent on making sure Sheppard wasn't beating himself over the accidental revelation that he'd bowed voluntarily to a wraith queen. Considering the circumstances, there was no reason for Sheppard to be wallowing in that kind of misery. But Ronon understood. By the Ancestors, how he understood. He'd never bowed to a queen let alone faced a queen. He did know what it meant to lose that tiny amount of control that should have meant nothing yet plagued the mind with self doubt; questioning whether that had just been the start and if next time around it would involve giving in completely.

It was why Heightmeyer had confronted him the day before the planned visit with Sheppard.

"_I'm not saying you understand, but you're the closest to having an understanding that we're going to get."_

_Ronon's right fist bounced off the rubber abdomen of the dummy. His left caved in the fake human face that righted itself with a muffled pop. "I wasn't planning on trying to get him to say anything. I think you would have noticed by now he's not big on long conversations, and I'm worse than he is."_

_Kate hovered in the entrance leaning casually against it. Her calm could be irritating at times, something to envy at others, and on occasion effective in being contagious. "Except he's going to. Not a promise but he's been as forthcoming as he can be so far. Although, so far, it hasn't been all that clear. The best way I can put it is that it's like he's in a perpetual state of shock. He's paranoid in too many different ways to keep up with and is certain something is wrong, that something being him. So he may talk or he may not. I'm not asking you to force him to, just get him to if you can."_

_Ronon swung around delivering a kick to the rubber head that collapsed and bounced back. "I don't have to make him."_

"_You don't have to make him."_

_Ronon stepped back from the dummy to turn to Heightmeyer. "Shouldn't I?" It seemed mandatory. Sheppard had been in enemy territory, which meant he might have seen things, heard things, that could be an advantage._

"_I'd rather it not come to that," Kate replied. "It's also not necessary." There was a hard edge behind the placidity that nearly made Ronon grin. So he wouldn't push. Not that he intended to or even had to. Knowing Sheppard, if there was something that needed to be said, intel to be passed on, it would have been the first thing out of his mouth. _

Ronon still believed that. He admired Sheppard. He'd gone up against one wraith queen. Then, there came stories that it hadn't been his first time. Ronon hadn't known much about queens since no one really survived to ever talk about them. Everything he now knew was more clinically outlined without any real insight – they could control minds and, according to Sheppard, it hurt like hell when they bent human will. They were prideful to a point that, according to Beckett, should have had them tripping all over themselves because pride goeth before the fall.

Just the fact that Sheppard had gone up against them twice – three times counting this one – and lived was impressive even without the details. It was common sense, kid's-story stuff. If the monsters were bad, their leaders had to be worse, and wraith were the only monsters the stories ever talked about. Sheppard was of the kind that would one day inspire stories. Maybe all of them, but Ronon had yet to really go up against a queen himself.

He also didn't like the kid-stories. They exaggerated everything, taught you to fear wraith in a way that made you want to come up against them to be a hero of legend yourself. Then the wish is granted and all you can think about is why they haven't killed you yet and wishing they would, just to get it over with.

Ronon stopped just on the other side of the infirmary door, wondering if he should have mentioned that. Longing for death was just as hard on the pride and speculation as kneeling by choice before the enemy. It was all a matter of discernment between giving up out of mindless animal terror and sacrifice for the greater good, and even now Ronon couldn't quite categorize all past decisions into one of the two.

Mostly he tried not to think about it. It could drive a man crazy.

Ronon continued on, exiting the infirmary into the hall.

"So how is he?"

Ronon had seen Rodney's shape out of the corner of his eye before he'd heard him. The scientist trotted to catch up, taking wide strides to keep up. Ronon was feeling anxious to get to the gym, occupy his body to allow for a little clearer thinking. He could sit still when needed to, but a part of him still preferred to work his mind on the move. It was less agitating that way.

"Better," Ronon said. "He's still coughing, but he's awake, alert, thinking clear."

Rodney nodded with a quiet "uh-huh", then twirled his hand. "I mean in terms of someone to have a conversation with." He sighed. "All right, being blatantly honest for good reason – he's not insane, is he?" He looked up at Ronon imploringly.

"Seemed fine to me." Which was true, although, Ronon's definition of insane included the transients he'd come across in the muddy streets of abandoned villages: ambling, muttering, and swatting at him for no reason.

Ronon honestly wanted to give more of an answer than that, because whether he liked it or not, he'd come to a better understanding about McKay and certain situations he wasn't adapted for. Human beings for one, a crisis not involving anything of a scientific nature for another. It would have been odd, and hard, to explain to an outsider, but right now McKay was looking out for Sheppard's welfare just as much as his own.

"He didn't babble nonsense or cower in a corner?"

Ronon shook his head. "Nope."

Rodney relaxed. "Good, great. I was a little worried that the fever," he gestured at his head, "might have done something." Silence settled between them, one Ronon was indifferent to while Rodney was obviously tense about.

Then the scientist sighed. "Well, that's all I wanted to know. See ya."

Rodney started to turn when Ronon placed his hand on his arm to stop him. He looked the physicist straight in the eye. "Don't worry about what you say to him. It's still Sheppard."

"Yes, but..."

"But he'd prefer it if you'd be yourself." He slapped Rodney on the shoulder. "You'll do fine," and he left Rodney at that. He wasn't just saying it to be saying it. Rodney would do fine. And it wouldn't be the first time; he just tended not to realize that.

TBC...

A/N: See? Slowly but surely, the team is getting to see John.


	17. Meeting of a Turtle and a Longtail Cat

A/N: Hugs and Holiday cookies to Drufan for the Beta and chapter title (which I had to shorten on the chapter titles because it was being so anal about length). (Wrings hands nervously) And now for what you've all been waiting for...

Ch. 16

Meeting of a Turtle and a Long-tailed Cat

A text book needed to be written on the wraith. It wasn't a whimsical joke on Kate's part (though she knew she'd get the reply of a few smirks for it); it was something to be seriously contemplated. A fifty page pamphlet, maybe less, to hand out to new staff fresh off the Daedalus, then a thicker manual for the more scientifically/medically inclined.

They knew _nothing _about the wraith. Feeding, physiology and government fine, but societal structure said so much more. It could also be exploited. Sheppard had done as much himself. Kate had read the report on the incident with Ford and the attack on the hive ship. Pretending to be a worshiper from another hive had weakened the camaraderie just enough for one attacking shot from a dart to cause utter collapse.

The current information she held in her hands, prose of a stressed mind scribbled out in wild handwriting, had uses. Not anything the military would be particularly excited about, at least not right away. Where there was slave labor driven to obedience by fear and pain, there was the potential for revolt. Of course, that was just a toss-up example. If revolt had been possible, Sheppard would have led it. Technical as John's recount was, it still gave Kate the strong impression that Sheppard hadn't been much up to any form of group rebellion. By himself, possibly, but beyond being physically able to truly fight back he also wasn't a man who caved easily to the sacrifice of others for the common good. He would never incite those he would consider civilians to rush head-long into a potentially deadly situation.

A colder, more thought-out example was slipping the retrovirus into the slaves' food, or somehow putting it where it could be pumped into the bodies of the cocooned. It was a military minded-concept that most would say didn't suit her, but to heal the military mind meant having to understand it, and what she understood was that it could get pretty damn dark in some of those innocent-looking heads.

The SGC would like the intel, probably want more in terms of detail, but it wouldn't satisfy as to whether or not John was some kind of a threat. They were just going to have to take Kate's word for it. John was vague about how he was treated except to say he'd been beaten by the worshipers, fed on by the wraith and "the food sucked," which, translated, meant torture, humiliation, and as proved by recent events, subjugation. Not really complete subjugation but enough to bother him more than it should (based on what Carson had recently told her.) It wasn't about brainwashing or even establishing control, it was pure and simple breaking for the sake of breaking.

They would have to keep tabs on any self-doubt that was sure to pop up. Self-doubt, self-blame, self-depreciation, and one mustn't forget an over-abundance of self-defense. The thought of John sleeping with his gun still strapped to his thigh had been a little private joke between them, until he'd finally admitted – like an awkward child – to sleeping with a gun under his pillow. Safety on, of course. Having a gun close at hand wasn't the problem. Being a soldier trained in hand to hand combat was, especially should he feel threatened in a non-threatening environment. Close proximity, sudden movement and touch as separate actions he had enough problems with. Kate didn't even want to imagine them combined in, say, a mess-hall setting where some civilian ended up in a choke hold from accidentally brushing the colonel's shoulder.

So it was a rather sick joke to say there was a possibility that Sheppard could be a threat. Maybe to himself as well since it was never wise to rule that out. She would have to talk to his team about it. Perhaps it wasn't fair how automatically she expected baby-sitting duty from them. Then again, that's just the way they were, like a society unto themselves, never thinking twice when it came to taking care of one of their own.

Like family.

In fact, one of those family members was scheduled to visit with Sheppard today, the final one of the group before multiple visits were allowed. Kate had contemplated being a fly on the wall for this one, but McKay deserved an un-intruded visit with his friend. Kate was just going to have to ask Rodney about it later.

----------------------------------

Rodney McKay was of the firm belief that there was such a thing as being _too_ careful, and that Beckett and Heightmeyer were doing just that with Sheppard. For the past couple of days he'd been good about not arguing the ridiculousness of forcing separate visits (and McKay felt justifiably proud about that). It didn't feel right, like being torn up, forced apart, forbidden to reform the unit that they were. Besides, knowing Sheppard, he would have preferred an all-at-once visit. It didn't have to be long, just a drop-by so he could see that they were all right and they could see that he was going to be all right.

Would that really have been so bad? Two minutes; Carson could have allowed a two-minute visit. Rodney doubted two minutes long enough to lead to Sheppard's head exploding or some other such garbage. The Scott was paranoid, and Heightmeyer a mothering control freak.

Rodney checked his watch for the fifth time in twenty minutes. One twenty-five: close enough as far as he was concerned. He closed up his laptop and tucked it under his arm before heading out of lab six. Not that he planned to work on anything; he just didn't trust the lax attitude when it came to 'borrowing.'

McKay passed Zelenka heading the other way.

"Finally to see the Colonel today?" the Czech asked.

"Yes, finally," Rodney said in passing. "Took damn well long enough."

McKay was all stoic confidence moving down the hall, having come to the conclusion that anything of a disturbing nature John had to talk about was most likely long past discussed with Teyla and Ronon, leaving little else to dump on Rodney.

Rodney slowed. Okay, so that was just... wrong, and on more levels beyond just the selfish. As one part of him sighed in relief that he wouldn't have to hear any horror stories from the hive ship, another part scowled at the first part and pouted that John might not open up to him. It shocked him, wanting that, since he already knew he wasn't going to like it. However, Sheppard being someone who had sat by Rodney and let him do the opening up once or twice, it was only fair that McKay return the favor.

Rodney resumed a quicker pace.

There was also a certain element of trust... okay, a _big_ element of trust – involved that... well... it just seemed it would be nice, being trusted like that.

McKay stepped into the infirmary and froze. Whether John opened up or not, Rodney had no idea what he was going to talk about with the man to get him talking, or say when he saw him, or what topic to go with to have something to talk about. Everyday goings-on, science, discoveries, incompetent new staff members, staff members who continued to be incompetent - the topic list scrolled fast through Rodney's brain, casual conversation pieces that would help keep things neutral for as long as neutrality could be maintained.

_What do you say to a guy tormented to his breaking point that won't break him further?_

Rodney winced. _No, he's not broken. Just nervous, just worn out, just... _

A hand landed heavily on his shoulder and he yelped, whipping around with his hand on his chest.

Carson stepped back with his own hands raised. "Sorry, Rodney, didn't mean to startle you."

Rodney curled his lip. "Like hell," he sneered. "Not meaning to scare me would involve a verbal warning before physical contact."

Carson blinked in surprise. "I did. Not my fault you retreat deeper into your brain than a turtle into its shell. You ready to see the colonel, now? He just finished up a bit of lunch so he's up for visitors."

Rodney jiggled his laptop against his thigh, shifting his weight from leg to leg. "Um... How is he? Physically and... stuff."

"Oh, well, physically he's doing better. The congestions letting up and he gained a pound. Although that's not saying much seeing as how he lost three pounds he didn't have to lose during the illness. Still, progress is progress no matter how small. There is the matter of bettering his bone-density but I've been getting quite a lot of calcium into him so that should start to remedy itself..."

Rodney bobbed his head and then twirled his hand when the list of minor physical improvements dragged on. "Yes, yes, but is there anything else I should know before talking to him?"

Beckett stumbled over his diagnosis, wrinkled his brow in confusion, then narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean, lad?"

Rodney shrugged. "Well, you know, it's just... he's been through something pretty rough and probably has a lot on his mind... Okay, look, you know me, and you know Sheppard. Above all you know how we get sometimes when we're around each other. See where I'm going with this?"

Carson folded his arms and lifted his chin. "Aye. You get snitty around each other even on the good days, but I've heard you two engage in intelligent, friendly, even rather_normal_ conversation."

"Yes, but let's go back to the _snitty_ part, shall we? I will admit that it is an odd way of getting along, and yet it seems to work since we have yet to kill each other. The question is... well, not so much the question. More like... more... Carson, what if I say something that he doesn't exactly 'take' well, huh? What if I-I-I say something that sparks some rather unpleasant memory on being on that hive that leads to him curling into a shaking ball or going catatonic or – or going violent and finally attempting to kill me? Not that he would, of course, since he probably doesn't have the strength to strangle an earth worm. But if you haven't already heard, I have a little bit of a reputation for kicking my teeth out on sticking my foot into my mouth, and I refuse to be the one who finally sends Sheppard over the edge." With that said, still with the laptop in one hand, Rodney crossed his arms over his chest, sealing his resolve even if it meant leaving right now.

Carson just stared at him with a cock-eyed look of incredulity. Then he snorted. "Oh bloody hell, man, the lad isn't some dainty little China tea-cup. Aye, there's no start to imagining what he's been through, but it's still Colonel Sheppard. If anything he'd probably appreciate a bit of banter, might find a smidgen of normalcy in it, which is all he ever wants after going through any kind of hell. He's a tough lad. Any slip of the tongue you make, he'll take it head on as usual."

Rodney drummed his fingers against his arm impatiently. "Not the way Heightmeyer talked."

"Oh, well, yes, she would get a little more technical about it. Look, Rodney, it's not like you're going in there to play psychiatrist. You're going in to keep him company, provide a bit of conversation, let him know you're there to help him, and that's it. You can talk about worm-hole physics or how lovely the bloody clouds are for all he cares. It's your presence that matters. So just stop all this fretting, go in and say hi." Carson grabbed him by the shoulders, spinning him around then giving him a tiny shove in the direction of the privacy sector. "And I'll be nearby if you think he's taking a turn for the worst."

"Oh, yes, _that's_ comforting. You suck at pep-talks, you know that?"

"Bah!" Carson barked with a dismissive wave.

Rodney moved almost at a shuffle toward the privacy wing, forcing his arms to drop at his side with the laptop tuck back under his armpit. A few nurses bustled by, one with a chart, another with a folded set of scrubs, and then two chatting amiably. Rodney steered around them into the sector where he saw the curtain around Sheppard's bed parted and Sheppard inclined against the raised head, propped up by a small hill of pillows. He looked skinny enough to snap if he so much as received a light pat on the shoulder, which was probably not too far from the truth what with the whole bone-density issue. Rodney was surprised the man hadn't gotten himself lost within all the blankets and pillows. He could slide under the sheets and covers and no one would know that he was there.

He was also still pale, sunken-eyed, hollow cheeked, so on and so forth. Right now those bruised-looking eyes blinked languidly, inching closer to just giving up and remaining shut, and a part of Rodney cheered it on.

Then Sheppard's head turned, eyelids lifting and eyebrows raising. One of the too-thin hands resting on the sunken stomach lifted in a small wave. "Hey McKay."

Rodney graced him with a small wave back. "Hey."

"About time you showed up."

Rodney shrugged. "Turns out, there was a line."

Sheppard smiled. "I know. Lines suck, don't they?"

"I believe hell a place where lines form that never move."

"Like the DMV?"

"Yes, hell on Earth." Rodney finished off the distance to the bed, pulling up the cushioned chair someone had thoughtfully went with instead of the usual tail-bone crushing stool. He was feeling a little less edgy, slightly more confident, but one-hundred percent of neither.

"So," he began.

"So," John replied. There was an awkward few seconds of silence, then "How've you been?"

"Can't complain," Rodney said.

John's chest jerked in a small laugh that Rodney hooded his eyes at. "Oh, come on. It's not like your attention span is long when I do complain."

"Sure it is, Rodney," said John with a smirk. "But after an hour of it, the topic kind of wears on you. Seriously, though, complain away. Or gloat away. Whatever you want. Find any cool new toys, ruins, a ZPM that got away? I refuse to believe you did nothing except sit on your ass and stare at the wall. Give me something, Rodney, whatever you..."

A nurse breezed by on Sheppard's other side, three feet of space between them, and John jumped so hard Rodney was amazed his bones remained in his skin.

"…want." After a quick, nervous dart of the eyes around the room, John relaxed. "Conversation is about all I'm up for. Carson even brought me my laptop to play a few video games. I fell asleep five minutes into Halo."

Rodney released a loud breath and brought his laptop around to rest on his knees. Maybe Carson was right about getting into worm-hole physics with John just to be talking. It would put the man to sleep, no doubts there, but sometimes it was just nice to have someone to talk with about such things, even if it didn't last. It also helped to verbally express theories in order to have a fresher view of them.

No. That wasn't taking advantage of an opportunity, it was just taking advantage. Or maybe revenge. Sheppard's little anecdotes about "kick-ass" playoffs between this college and that college could put a rabid football fan to sleep. Fair play and all that, if this were the time and the place, which it wasn't. That small display of minor agitation aside, McKay felt comfortable that Sheppard wasn't going to burst into tears and start confessing about horrors upon horrors. So he didn't want the man to fall asleep, he wanted to talk to him the way they used to talk. He wanted his own little slice of normalcy.

"Well," Rodney began, "Zelenka and I believe we stumbled on an account of the first attempt at making a quantum mirror. It seems the first time was a charm enough not to tear any holes in space-time... at least not here. The data-base was being kind of vague about want went wrong. We assume _something_ had been torn somewhere, most likely their egos..." Rodney had felt rather smug about it, because nothing squashed superiority complexes like fallibility, and some days Rodney just flat out hated the Ancients.

The data-base – not being Google – didn't have handy little links shuffling them off to the next mirror attempt, so the search was still on. Nothing remarkable in terms of smaller devices were found. Ancients had been the first to invent hairdryers, it seemed, with the unfortunate side-effect of leading to premature baldness with its hurricane-force power. Then there were those two devices like some medieval helmets with a bunch of wires attached that let one see through the eyes of the other if they didn't mind the excruciating migraine that followed. And one mustn't forget the little hand-held trinket that singed the nerves with minor electric shocks no matter how one held it.

"This city is nothing more than a joke-shop of failed experiments," Rodney said.

"Or the Ancients decided to take all the good stuff." Sheppard flinched at the approach of a second nurse carrying a clipboard in one hand and BP cuff, stethoscope, and thermometer in the other. She set it all on the bed, working through the equipment one at a time, BP cuff first. The stringy muscles of John's arms tightened, tugging at the skin. "I don't think they had time for a garage sale."

The cuff inflated, the nurse jotted the readings, and then the cuff deflated. The stringy muscles didn't relent until the cuff was off, only to coil up when the stethoscope came next sliding beneath the shirt to press against his chest. The heart-monitor's rhythm increased a few rates.

"Well, they had disposal units, incinerators. I believe even they understood the concept of tossing junk, and it's a little hard to imagine them having a pack-rat attitude," Rodney argued.

John jolted hard at the nurse's light touch on his shoulder prompting him to lean forward enough to slide the bell of the stethoscope down his back. "Happens to the best of us," he tightly stated. Every barely existing muscle in his body pulled, twitching the skin. "I'm still paying for a storage unit in L.A."

"If the Ancients were advanced enough to shed mortal bodies, they can sure as hell get over hording junk."

The scope moved back to John's chest. Slender fingers curled like claws into the layers of blankets and sheets. John's skin was no longer twitching like the back of a flea-bit dog, he was trembling.

The bulge beneath the scrub that was the nurse's hand move, just a fraction, closer to the sternum. John choked, curling in a cringe away from the contact. Heart rate increased, breathing increased, and sweat dampened the hairs at John's temples and the nape of his neck. Rodney gripped tight to his laptop, wondering if he needed to leave, get Carson, or stay put. Since the nurse wasn't forthcoming with instructions, he stayed put. Except he really didn't want to, feeling like a voyeur witnessing something he wasn't meant to see. Something John would rather not have him see, because that was just the way Sheppard was.

Then the nurse snatched her hand away as if something had tried to bite her and muttered an apology with a few soothing add-ons. She asked if John was all right, if he needed anything, if she should call Carson. When he shook his head, she left, and the barely-existing muscles eased like taffy released out of a stretch. Heart-rate slowed, breathing slowed, and John slumped gray-skinned, heavy, and exhausted deeper into his pillows. On trying to swallow, he reached for his water.

"What were we talking about?" he said, hoarse and tired.

Rodney moved quick in handing the cup to him. "Um... hording?"

John took the water and furrowed his brow. "Why?"

"Because the Ancients liked to leave their junk lying around for their human pets to hurt themselves on. Sheppard, are you all right?" Maybe it wasn't quite the right question to ask, considering, but McKay no longer really cared what kind of conversation it led to. That had been a lot of stress for one little vitals check.

John flapped a limp hand. "I'm good. And maybe the "junk" was left lying around because they weren't failed experiments, they were unfinished ones." He exhaled a heavy breath that couldn't really be called a sigh. His hand strayed to his chest, thin fingers digging into the breastbone like trying to rub something away – lingering sensation, perhaps. Rodney had been that way when he was younger and even a quick handshake would make his skin crawl until rubbed away on the thigh of his pants.

What tugged at Rodney's curiosity was whether John was aware he was doing it. Rodney hadn't been, not until Jeannie started pointing it out by launching into a controlled tirade about how rude it was. He'd only made the effort to stop so she would stop.

Rodney opened his mouth to point the action out, then decided against it. Not for selfish reasons. Maybe a few minutes ago that might have been the case. Knowing Sheppard, saying anything wouldn't satisfy curiosity with answers, it would embarrass John into clamming up tighter, or possibly scare the hell out of him. He'd seen the man do that, too – react or respond subconsciously, usually violently, sometimes over nothing that really mattered, and realization would come like a rude wake-up call to throw him off balance so bad there was no way to recover with dignity intact. He would scrounge for an excuse, find none, and slink of into solitude until he managed to get a grip.

So it was far better just to avoid the mess all together and let him have his subconscious reactions, let Kate be the one to drop the bomb.

Rodney awkwardly resumed the conversation, letting it bounce from topic to topic like drunken ramblings what with Sheppard fighting off the need for sleep. The occasional passing body would give the pilot ground, the subsequent spooked flinch squirting enough adrenaline into his blood to last a little longer. Maybe some lunch break was over or the nurses were cleaning house, but the motion became more of a constant that set Sheppard on edge darting his gaze around, heart-monitor stuttering from slow to fast, even skipping a few beats. Sweat beaded on his forehead and slicked glowing on his neck.

This was getting ridiculous. Not the spooking part, the part where the nurses seemed to be pointedly ignoring the fluctuating heart-monitor. Rodney finally broke down, took the initiative, and yanked the privacy curtains closed.

John relaxed, not completely, just enough for the heart-monitor to go steady again.

Sheppard looked like he needed three days of uninterrupted sleep. Everything about him sagged, his eyelids fluttering in futility. Rodney rolled his eyes. "Sheppard, just sleep. I know you need it, you know you need it. It's not like I'm going to be offended if you nod off during our rather stimulating conversation of why cats are better than dogs."

"Dogs are better," John slurred, "and sleep is all I've been doing. Pardon the pun, but I'm tired of it."

"Dogs are better in your dreams. And your body disagrees. It's tired of being awake. So sleep."

John's eyes rounded wide enough to pop out of his head. "But I wanna talk." He rolled his head toward Rodney. "Can't we talk?"

The vocal and visual desperation had bite that sank right through to Rodney's chest forming an ache. Sheppard might have been playing a trump card but he was also looking a little shook up like McKay's cat after the neighbor's kid had set off fire-crackers.

Rodney took the hint. "We can talk. How about a nap, first? Don't worry, I'll still be here when you're done." For emphasis, he opened his laptop and booted it up.

The rest of John's tension finally leaked away. Rodney was half afraid that if Sheppard sank any lower into the bed, he really would get swallowed up in it.

"I guess that wouldn't hurt," Sheppard croaked.

Rodney leaned forward pressing the switch that lowered the head of the bed. "Actually, it would do you a world of good."

Sheppard squirmed into a more comfortable position, blinked once, twice, and then kept his eyes closed the third time, his head lolling to the side. Rodney leaned forward again to tug at the blankets. He hated seeing people cold. It made him feel cold.

Rodney started typing, smiling to himself. This wasn't so bad.

-----------------------------

It was inevitable that Rodney left. Alien planet and alien city didn't allow a detour from the age-old practice of visiting hours, and by the time dinner rolled around Carson had personally chased him off when McKay had demanded his own tray to be brought up along with Sheppard's cup o' soup. It was the first time, ever, that John had protested for reasons other than boredom, but using boredom as a cover.

McKay staying, voluntarily watching his back as he slept, company in solitude but also safety – everything Sheppard had fought not to long for on the hive ship, what with the "safety" part completely lacking. Being home, he could finally give into selfishness without feeling like pond-scum about it.

"Can't he stay?" Sheppard had asked like a nine-year-old begging that his best friend stay over for the night, while feeling like a five-year-old not wanting daddy to leave for work. The impression alone was humiliating enough to keep from arguing when Carson said no.

Sheppard pulled the blanket at an angle to cover his exposed ear without having to suffocate himself. It muted the shuffling footsteps hissing over smooth floors, but not the muffled whispered voices skittering in the dark to crawl down his spine. He shivered. Isolation ward his ass. Thanks to his spontaneous reaction to illness, the night-shift had doubled, most of the staff hovering around his section on unstated guard duty. Not that he was offended by it all things consider. However, these people couldn't quite get it through their heads that whispering was still talking and that they needed to shut the hell up already.

John arched his back a little to work out the crawling tingle dancing over his backbone. The breathy conversations brushed into his ear, down his throat, and into his chest and back light as fingertips. He hated it. It made him feel sick, violated, like outside voices being shoved into his head, laughing at him, playing with him. Sheppard groaned, then whimpered.

"Col. Sheppard?"

John jumped with a hard shudder.

"Oh! Sorry, colonel, I didn't mean to startle you. I thought you might have been dreaming. Are you all right?"

John didn't waste any effort turning just to see a face masked by shadows. "Fine," he muttered.

"Are you sure? Do you need anything?"

_For everyone to SHUT THE HELL UP!_

But John went for being more of a gentleman by murmuring, "No, thank you."

"All right, then. You have that call button if you need anything. Try to get some sleep."

John dug his face into his pillow to hide his scowl. Maybe the talkers finally got bored with their conversation or the nurse had realized the real issue, but the infirmary had gone as blessedly silent as an infirmary could get, letting the muscles of his back finally unknot. Exhaustion took him, more like a heavy lethargic stupor that turned everything surreal and in-between. It couldn't be called sleep; his body was still caught-up in the habit of being over-sensitized and twitchy for real sleep. Carson hadn't given him his usual small helping of muscle relaxant to take care of the problem, not wanting him to grow dependent on it.

John dreamed (if it could be called dreaming) in corpse-pale blue and violet, of webbed bars, the whisper of leather long-coats shushing over an organic floor, and wailing from a distant place he'd rather die than go back to.

He thought he could hear humming, happy and giddy and touching his spine with fingers of ice. It was cold, always so damn cold...

Shrieks and shouting and clattering feet vibrated the very walls in a single mass-cacophony like an explosion of too much life and terror. Misty figures in beige ran echoing screams, misty figures in black pursuing.

_Storage is empty! They hunger! Run!_

John's heart slammed fist-like into his ribs. He knew this, and suddenly would rather face a cocoon than experience it again. He flailed stick-thin arms scrabbling for purchase to pull himself away. Gripping cloth in one hand and cold metal in the other, he hauled himself, moving. He just needed to move, to hide, behind a pillar, in a niche, out of sight, out of mind, and scott-free from the feeding hands that would smash into him, break his bones, and suck him dry. John heaved, pushing and pulling when his entire body went heart-stoppingly weightless in a way that was almost pleasant, like being on Carson's best drugs, or flying.

It was a second long ride before something impacted his body with a force that shook his bones and shoved pain into his awareness. He tried so damn hard not to cry out, but the shock of the impact and the surprise of the pain forced one from his throat anyways. It was a broken sound, cut short to morph into a whimper. Then hands were on him, all over him, but this time he fought. Like hell it was happening again. He couldn't let it happen again. He couldn't take it anymore.

Maybe if he begged... he just couldn't... he had to…

"_Please..."_

TBC

A/N: (Cringes) I know, another cliffhanger. I hope Rodney's visit with John worked. There'd been a lot of speculation on whether or not Rodney would send John over the edge. I feel McKay quite capable of compassion and understanding, and that his desire to not be the one to drive John batty would keep him awkward enough to, well, keep himself from driving John batty. I honestly couldn't see Rodney doing anything that would make John worse, at least not this early-on. So, I hope you all found it plausible.


	18. Gilded Comfort Zone, Not Cage

A/N: Sheppard's a little bit OOC in this one, but for a reason, and it doesn't last long.

Ch. 17

Gilded Comfort Zone, Not Cage

Carson had set up his quarters right smack next to the infirmary and still couldn't bring himself to use the damn room. Sleeping in his office was bloody-well easier. The only time he ever used his room was during those rare stints when not a single team was off-world. Even then, he'd still wander like a sleep-walker back to his cot in his office. The bleeding proximity to his domain was like a damn security blanket. Although, he was learning to live with it, to the point of considering to bringing in a real bed.

At the blare of unscheduled activation alarms and the call over the com for a med team, Carson – still dressed – rolled from the stiff cot onto his feet, rolling locked shoulders as he followed his team alongside a gurney. It was Sgt. Briant's team, their youngest member, Lt. Valorez, suffering multiple bite and claw wounds from some animal. The poor boy was blood-soaked, white-faced, and completely unresponsive and limp as a stuffed toy.

They wheeled him into the infirmary, transferring him to a bed. Clothes were cut away and two IVs inserted, one running clear and the other red. The wounds weren't deep, the bite marks small, but numerous enough to be a concern. The Ancient scanner was wheeled in over the bed, passing slow across the body. The read-out gave Carson a little relief at the lack of any internal injuries, except for a broken arm and sprained ankle. With new blood replacing the lost, all that was really needed was a thorough cleaning of the wounds and a few stitches to close the deeper punctures. Carson injected some broad-spectrum antibiotics into the I.V. port. A nurse attached heart monitor leads as soon as the boy's chest was cleaned up enough.

"I swear I'll sic the zoologists on 'em if they'd fed whatever the bloody-hell had done this to the lad," Carson muttered. It wouldn't be the first time something supposedly cute and fuzzy had been tossed a power bar or two, only to have the cute-fuzzy prefer fresh meat.

With Valorez relatively settled, Carson snapped off the bloody gloves and tossed them into the bio-hazard bin. The nurses could handle the rest, and Carson, content that nothing had required surgery, was already looking forward to stretching back out on his cot.

"Dr. Beckett?"

Carson paused and turned. Angela, one of the night-staff assigned to Sheppard, was leaning looking waxen and troubled out of the entrance to the privacy wing. "Dr. Beckett, I think you should come see this."

"What is it, lass?" Carson asked, following. She took him into the dusky ward toward an empty bed with tangled sheet and a group of nurses – one female and two male – crouched on the floor speaking softly to a ball of white scrubs and pale skin packed into the corner formed by the bed and the wall.

"It's Colonel Sheppard," Angie explained, voice a little unsteady but otherwise controlled. "I came to check on him to see if all the noise woke him up and found him on the floor. We were trying to see if he was all right, to get him back into bed, but he started fighting us. We had to let him go so he wouldn't hurt himself and he hasn't moved from that spot since."

The three other nurses glanced up briefly to see Carson before backing off enough to make room. He crouched in front of them, facing Sheppard, and with a bit of a mental nudge turned the lights up a fraction. Sheppard had his knees pulled tight to his chest, one arm wrapped around them and the other around one of the metal poles forming the folding legs of the bed. By the rather wide-eyed, vacant look, Carson would have to guess that John was in shock - a rather ghoulish expression on that gaunt face. Beckett reached out, lightly touching the bony knot of John's shoulder. Sheppard's reaction was a gasp and violent jerk in which he recoiled tighter into himself, twisting away enough to have his upper back protected by the wall.

"Colonel Sheppard?" Carson whispered. "John? It's all right, lad. It's me, Carson. You're all right." He tried again, this time reaching out toward his face. His finger barely brushed John's cheek when the pilot pulled away with another gasp; cringing, quaking, and breathing fast and shallow.

"Please..." he whispered, voice so small and desperate that it seemed unnatural considering whose voice it was. "Please…no…please? Crap, don't…I can't, please..."

Carson scooted closer. "John, it's all right. You're safe. No one's going to hurt you." He reached out a third time, this time touching John's jaw, keeping his hand there even when Sheppard tried to pull away. Carson then placed his other hand on John's cheek and gently turned his head to look him in the empty eyes. "John, come on, lad, focus. Look at me. You're all right. You're home, in Atlantis, safe. Look at me, John. Come on, now, just look at me. No one's going to hurt you."

John's eyes flickered to and from Carson, too fast for him to spot any recognition. The man's breathing increased from shallow pants to near-hyperventilating speeds that pulsated his bony chest. He started searching frantically around, whimpering on each exhale. His body listed to one side, about to drop onto his injured arm. Carson shifted his hold to the shoulders.

"Pillow," Carson hissed. "I don't think it's wise to move him, yet. Someone get me my portable scanner."

The pillow was slid beneath John's head for Carson to gently lower him to the floor where he curled up shuddering and staring. The scanner was slapped into Carson's palm. He passed the wand over John's body, watching the pilot's misty skeleton move across the screen, bones not as white as they should have been. He saw new cracks in the ribs accompanied by inflammation. The collar-bone that had been healing so nicely was now back to square one. Not too bad, really, considering what could have been broken if John had landed on his back. Carson tucked the scanner into his pocket to focus on calming John.

Maybe touch wasn't the way to go, but Carson needed someway to ground the man and voice alone wasn't going to cut it. He kept to the shoulders, the arms, and lower back, rubbing gently while speaking softly. "You're all right, lad; you're all right, now. You're safe."

This was too much vulnerability Carson was seeing, and he didn't feel right about witnessing it. John was such a proud man. Not prideful, just that he had his dignity, a knack for keeping a level head, keeping control, even under the roughest circumstances. So it was bloody-well unnatural not seeing it in him. Even when mutating into the creature, when control started sifting through his fingers like sand, John had fought for control. Hard as he could he'd struggled to the last possible second to keep a leash on himself. Carson had seen it, Elizabeth, John's team. It had been fading but with enough left for the real John to actually keep from killing anyone.

This, now, obviously wasn't like then. Although, it scared Carson like then: the lack of response, of recognition, and, most of all, the possibility of John not having much left to fight with. No control, no dignity, just animal terror for what was no longer there.

Carson continued his bit of soothing until it finally penetrated the addled brain enough for the respiratory rate to settle and John's eyes to go heavy lidded. Sheppard swallowed, the glassy eyeballs rolling up in the sunken sockets to finally focus on Carson.

"Doc?"

Carson stopped rubbing John's arm. "Aye, lad?"

"Am I on the floor?"

Carson nodded. "Aye, lad."

Sheppard's tongue flicked over his lips. "I, uh... I think I might have been dreaming."

"Oh, aye, I think you might have."

John nodded, his eyes blinking heavy. "It was... rough waking up."

"I would think."

Carson felt a tremor course through the skinny body. Sheppard's hand curled clutching tight to the pillow. "I don't... I... maybe I shouldn't sleep."

Beckett squeezed his arm. "Maybe I should give you a nip of something to help against the dreams." He hated doing it, having hoped to wean John back into a natural sleep. Obviously that wasn't going to happen yet. "I think the noise spooked you, lad. We had a bit of an emergency, but all's well and good. How about we get you back into bed and I'll get you that something."

John nodded. The nurses flocked in to help only to scuttle back at a stern look from Carson when John jumped and tried to pull away. Sheppard wasn't all that heavy to handle but it still made Carson sweat a little with all the new breaks plus the old breaks to worry about. He helped John back into bed, resting one hand lightly on the pilot's vivid ribs, as Sheppard settled comfortably with a wince. Carson lifted the scrub shirt to tighten and adjust the bindings on John's chest. He checked the sling, the cast on the wrist, and then covered Sheppard up. Angie handled cleaning the tear in the colonel's hand from the I.V. before inserting a new needle.

Carson finished up with the promised light sleeping aid injected into the port. He pulled up the padded chair to sit and wait long enough to ensure nightmares didn't creep in too early. Most of the time they didn't with the sleeping-aid, but a nightmare or two would occasionally slip through. When that happened, it was common knowledge that it was nice not to have to wake up alone.

-----------------------------------

"It's ready and I think this is a bad idea." Rodney had a way of entering a room with his voice first followed by his body. Carson didn't look up from Valorez's chart since making eye-contact with Rodney held the same effect as acknowledging a very hyper-active, obnoxious little dog. And Carson knew plenty about obnoxious little dogs. He'd had a plethora of aunts with an unhealthy affection for obnoxious little dogs. The mere fraction of a second you express any kind of attention toward the flea-bitten ankle-biters and they would follow you around for the duration of the stay at said aunt's, underfoot and taking every opportunity to jump at the face for a nip or lick or both. Gah, Carson had hated those little monsters.

Not that he hated Rodney. Unlike the dogs, the man did know, eventually, when and how to heel. Avoiding immediate eye-contact seemed to make it happen faster.

"I told you I'll be keeping him monitored," Beckett said. He watched Rodney stop out of the corner of his eye, adjacent to, and several feet from, Valorez's bed.

"What you said was you would send someone to check him every hour. Monitoring requires equipment – cameras, maybe even hidden coms. Sending a person is just a cheap way of making sure Sheppard doesn't end up a corpse before rigormortis sets in."

No tact, no bloody tact what-so-ever. With a final, irritable stroke Carson finished off his jotting and clipped the chart back to the bed, glad Valorez was too well sedated to hear what was being said about his CO. That's how rumors get started, like the one where Sheppard had rabies when Rodney had so efficiently and vociferously exclaimed his disgust toward the foamy spittle flecking John's lips from too much coughing.

"Stuff it, Rodney, I'm not denying the colonel a little privacy for the sake of paranoia. He's doing quite well enough even now, the monitoring equipment still attached out of precaution. His fever's gone, his lungs are clearing up... the only concern is his bone density and the injuries from last night's spill. There's really no reason for him to have to remain here. He'd be more comfortable in his room."

Comfortable and a hell of a lot safer. Carson and his staff were in agreement that all the chaos of last night had been the culprit behind Sheppard's dive from the bed more than dreams. The colonel's constant tension hadn't escaped Carson, and all the flinching if someone so much as breezed by too close was hard for anyone to miss.

Sheppard needed to be able to collect himself, order his thoughts, which wasn't all that possible in a constantly active infirmary setting. Beckett had explained it as much to Sheppard's team and they had gotten it pretty quick, even Rodney after a little hesitation. Carson understood that hesitation. Sheppard was mending fine but he was still brittle and weak. Keeping Sheppard nearby would make for a better good-night's sleep, but slow healing from too much stress wasn't worth it. Sheppard needed to feel safe, at home, and like he was making progress physically. Nothing said safety, home and progress like being released to one's own room.

Carson did one last check of the monitors before turning to finally face Rodney. Teyla and Ronon stood on either side of the physicist.

"Were you able to put _everything_ back? Sheppard isn't the covetous type but he's hyper-aware enough to notice if something's missing."

"Considering Sheppard left everything to us," Rodney said, "and neither one of us have any interest in any of it except to keep it from being tossed into a dumpster, it wasn't exactly hard picking model planes and a surf board from candles, knives and my science journals. Trust me, Carson, even his golf clubs are right back where he liked to set them."

Carson nodded, relaxing. "Good." It wasn't the objects that defined personal space; it was the memories behind them, even the small ones. It was kind of like filling up empty spaces with water – you couldn't see it, but you could feel it, giving substance to nothing. Carson would have hated releasing Sheppard to an empty room. Actually, he probably wouldn't have released him at all had that been the case.

"I even took the liberty of having his clothes washed," Teyla said with a smile. Sheppard's will hadn't been specific, just that whatever he had was to go to Ronon, Teyla, and Rodney, probably because he'd known they would have taken care of it all. And he'd been right. Teyla had even taken possession of his clothes like a small, unexpressed hope that he might one day come back and be in need of them. Gah, hope was funny that way, just another word for faith.

Carson smiled back. "Good lass, he'll appreciate it."

"I still don't like it," Rodney said, crossing his arms for emphasis. "You said so yourself, Carson. He's still weak and brittle. What if he falls out of bed and breaks his back or neck and he's lying there for an hour, unable to feel his feet or even move, before somebody finally finds him. Huh? Then what?"

Carson had tried hard not to roll his eyes thus far, but gave up. "He took a nastier spill off an infirmary bed and survived. Atlantis beds are lower to the floor if you haven't noticed. He'll be fine, Rodney. I'm not releasing him because he pestered me into it. It's for his own good."

Rodney kept his arms crossed, a muscle in his jaw jumping, but remained silent. It was as good as acquiescing as McKay was going to get.

-----------------------------------

"Plenty of rest," Carson said, "and little moving about. You use the wheel chair to and from the bathroom and that's it. Take the vitamins with your meals..."

John was giving the muscles of his neck a decent workout with all the looking around he was doing, like a six-year old tourist on his first trip to Disneyland. He'd been gone long enough – as well as stuck in the infirmary long enough - to have formed a bigger appreciation for every bubbling pillar, colored window, and ornate design his eyes landed on. But it wasn't just the sights, there was also a feel, soft and warm as a blanket pressed against the back of his mind and spreading down his spine to the rest of his body. It was easier to pick up on in the empty corridor Carson had taken to get him to his room. The Scot was going all out, even handling the wheelchair himself instead of passing off the drudge-work to the nurse following along side.

"Did you hear me, colonel?" Carson said.

John nodded, still craning. "Yeah."

"Why do I doubt that?"

John just shrugged. He wasn't really up to witty comebacks. Heading to his room felt a little like visiting an old friend, and he was anxious to get there. Then there was the privacy factor. One mustn't forget that.

They came out into the more populated corridor of the living quarters, turning into John's room further down.

Everything was there. Not exactly where he'd left it, but all still there, and it came as a little bit of a shock. Not because of the logic that since he'd been written off as dead he shouldn't even have any quarters any more, but because long passages of time birthed pointless instinct that expected massive changes. He'd gone through the same sensation after returning from the cloister, staring bewildered at a dust free room exactly as he'd left it, like a recreation for a museum exhibit. In fact, he'd actually been a little timid about touching anything, as though he hadn't had the right to.

It helped, now, just a little, that things weren't exactly as he'd left them. At the same time it threw him for a whole new loop, like he'd entered the room of an alternate version of himself. His golf-clubs, on the other hand, were exactly where he had left them.

The nurse turned down the fresh blankets while Carson helped John move from the chair at a shuffle crossing the four feet of distance to the bed. Short walks to and from his bed to the chair had given him strength enough not to need support, but not strength enough to last long. To and from the chair, that was it. They got John settled, Carson pulling bottles of medicine and vitamins from his pocket to set on the nightstand. The nurse added a couple of bottles of water.

His radio, Carson set down last. "You keep that with you at all times," he said. "Even when going to the bathroom. Lunch is in a half hour so a nurse'll be dropping by with a bit of something for you to eat." The Scottish doctor looked around the room, taking it in, also searching for what might be missing. Seemingly satisfied, he gave John a reassuring smile. "Rest up, lad. You'll not be disturbed here unless you want it to happen."

Carson and the nurse headed out, leaving John to bask in the solitude of his room and the ability to lock the door with his mind. Gosh, he loved that. One thought and the locks clicked, sealing him in because he wanted it, because he was the one with the key. His body quaked with the vindication and safety and relief of it. It made him giddy, so giddy he choked on a laugh at the image of Vee'rana prowling outside, tearing at the door, screaming to be let in and never being able to. Or the wraith-- or Ki'vana-- or the queen. He'd thought he'd felt safe just being home, but this was a whole other level that made his heart beat fast and his breathing speed up with it.

_They'd probably kill someone else, then someone else, until you let them in. Is it worth it?_

John shook his head to clear it. Recalling what Carson had said – about almost hyperventilating out of excitement – Sheppard looked around his room for a little distraction. Someone, not Carson or the nurse, had taken the liberty of setting John's iPod, PSP, and even his laptop within reach on a second bed-side table. He started with a little music to drown out the chaos in his head, and then he moved on to his laptop and a few computer games. Needing to go to the bathroom got him in the chair, and on leaving the bathroom he wheeled around his room, stopping next to each and every object that was his, touching them, making them tangible and his again. He ran his fingertips over the plastic of the model airplanes. Then he thrummed the strings of his guitar. He rubbed each cool head of the golf-clubs until they warmed before finally heading back to bed.

_I shouldn't be here._

_No, you shouldn't._

_I should be dead._

_You don't deserve to be here._

_That's not what I meant..._

John shook his head again, rattling the rambling thoughts right out of his skull. Slipping back under the covers, he shifted, wincing at a pinch of pain in his ribs, until he found a comfortable enough position to curl up in. Carson had told him about his little panic attack and dive off the bed; freaky dreams exacerbated by the chaos of a medical emergency.

But not here, not in this silence, no way.

That had been the problem: the noise. The noise coupled with the motion and people always looking at him for no damn good reason. Always flinching because people moved too much, and touches by too cold or too warm hands. It had taken a hell of an effort to keep his mouth shut and not lash out verbally for people to just stop moving for a few minutes, so he could think. It was even harder to keep from barking for everyone to leave him the hell alone. Not his team. Their company he wanted. They didn't hover or touch or wander in and out of sight. They sat and they stayed, one spot, little movement, and face to face.

John closed his eyes, sighing in the contentment of knowing that he wouldn't be caught off guard anytime soon. It felt so indescribably good that he couldn't get his body to stop shaking and his brain to shut down. He wanted to enjoy this, every minute of it. It was laughable how being self-confined could feel like freedom, but it did.

For the first time in a long time, since being taken and even after, he felt truly and inarguably safe; to the point that he doubted he'd be able to leave this room.

_Why do you get to feel safe?_

He twitched his head flinging the thought away.

TBC...


	19. A Shade of Used to Be

A/N: Many more thanks for your reviews. They are always appreciated.

Ch. 18

A Shade of Used to Be

Soft humming tickled John's ear, like a breath creating a painful numb that crawled into his neck to go shivering down his spine. He snapped his head up with a gasp, his hand going straight to his cloth-covered chest. The fading sensation of pressure from a smaller hand lingered beneath his own against his breastbone until he rubbed it away. He thought and the lights burst on nearly blinding him. After blinking away lightning sparks and a stabbing headache, he darted his gaze to each shadowy corner of the room. He didn't let himself relax until he was sure the room was empty of a particular female presence that was supposed to be dead.

Vee'rana was dead. Dead and gone and he was home in his room. He released a sharp breath and flopped back onto his bed, wincing when it jostled his ribs. He closed his eyes, just breathing, focused on his heart thumping heavy in his chest starting to settle down.

He could still hear her humming. Yeah, it was just a memory, but it was almost like his mind no longer knew how to shut down without that constant noise somewhere in the background. John opened his eyes and sighed, then looked at his digital clock.

Four fifteen. Not bad, actually. He was normally up earlier than that.

Thinking the lights off, John tried to go back to sleep. He was fairly certain he'd managed a light doze when the next time he woke it was five thirteen. Better than nothing, although, Beckett probably wouldn't agree. He wanted John asleep on his own accord for a good straight eight hours and then some. But John was starting to suspect his body had forgotten how to do that. There'd been no night or day on the hive ship, or any kind of time, or any kind of real sleeping for that matter. He had a lot of adjusting to do.

John tried again to doze. When it didn't happen, he gave up, tossing back the covers then making the short trip from the bed to the wheelchair, and then to the bathroom to take care of business. He suspected the wheelchair wasn't all that necessary in making pit stops, but he wasn't going to end up back in the infirmary by taking chances. Carson would haul him away if he caught him going without the chair. Yes, Beckett was just being cautious, but cautious in the way of a doctor paranoid about being sued even in another galaxy. Sheppard felt bad for the medical profession in that respect, he really did. However, he also felt the wheelchair to be overkill.

After nature was handled, John rolled to his dresser and grabbed some clothes. He could take a shower, if he didn't take a long one since standing didn't tire him as quickly as walking around did. He set the clothes on the rail, staying in the chair as he removed his shirt and wrap the plastic Carson had provided for just this moment around his wrist-cast, then standing to remove the rest.

It was tempting to linger under the hot spray warming skin he hadn't really realized was cold. It probably wasn't the quick shower Beckett would have wanted, yet John couldn't make himself get out until every inch of his skin was scoured with soap and his hair scrubbed. He only quit when his legs started shaking, stepping out leaning heavily against the wall with one hand as he dried off, nearly tipping forward twice. He dropped into the chair as soon as he had the dark blue sweat pants on before pulling on a long-sleeved black top. Water dripped from his hair soaking cold into the collar and he shivered.

John steered the chair back into his room.

"Oh, there you are."

Sheppard jumped hard enough to send the chair rolling backward two feet, his heart jumping even harder knocking the breath from him and tightening his chest. "McKay!"

"What?" Rodney was by the bed, having cleared off the night stand enough to set a tray down. "One of Carson's nurses was doing the kindness of bringing you breakfast, couldn't get in, so I bypassed the locks so she could drop it off, and I thought, 'well, I'm already in so I guess I'll just wait around…'"

John's chest cinched tighter until he could barely breathe, his fingers doing the same to the arms of the chair. "You – you did what?"

"Bypassed the lock. Look, I know it sounds bad but it was kind of an emergency or I wouldn't even have done it. Okay, it wasn't so much an emergency, but her arms were getting kind of tired, and it's that one nurse who doesn't give me the silent treatment every time I come in... Anyways, your breakfast is here so you better eat it before Carson comes to do his hovering thing and blames me for you not having eaten so--" He swept his arm casually toward the food, "--there it is, eat up."

Sheppard licked suddenly dry lips, looking to and from the door that could now open at any time to anyone. "You... unlocked it?"

Rodney tossed his hands up in visual bewilderment. "Yes, I unlocked it. Didn't I just say that... or something like it? Anyway, what's the problem? It's not like I haven't done it before. So come on, eat. You actually look like you lost more weight."

John clasped his hands tightly in his lap hunching against what felt like a very large and very open room. "I'm... I'm not, um, really hungry right now..."

McKay stiffened, paling. "Oh no, no way! Uh-uh." He walked fast up to John's chair, making him flinch but too intent on grabbing the handles and pushing Sheppard toward the food to notice. "You're going to eat, you hear me? Because if Carson finds out he's going to chew both of us up and spit us out. Well, probably just me... it doesn't matter! You need to eat; we all know it. So let's save us the trouble of another Beckett lecture by putting some food in you."

The chair suddenly stopped. "Hey, are you all right? You're kind of shaking. Are you cold?"

John looked down at his hands that, even clenched, were quaking perceptibly. "I'm fine." It was a lie since he didn't feel particularly fine. He felt nervous, edgy, like he always did when he knew Ki'vana was supposed to show up, or when he heard the distant tromp of wraith boots heading his way.

"No, you're not fine; you're, like, cold or something. Here..." Rodney pulled the blanket from John's bed and spread it over his lap. "There, that help?"

John's eyes flickered back to the door. "Does it still work?"

"Does what still work?" Rodney said, adjusting the blanket so it wouldn't fall off.

"The lock. Can I still lock my door?"

Rodney paused and looked at John as though he'd just said something less than intelligent. "Of course. I bypassed it, I didn't break it."

John looked away, dropping his eyes to the floor, achingly aware of what this was starting to look like. "Don't – just don't do that again, okay?"

"Well, that'll be kind of hard if there's an emergency..."

John closed his eyes. "Please. Just leave it locked. I don't want people barging in on me, that's all."

He knew Rodney was staring at him without having to see it. He had to force himself to meet the searching, penetrating gaze out of spite against himself and the desire to want to shrink away out of existence. His heart pounded hard in growing dread that Rodney would ask why. Sheppard didn't have an answer he could put into words, but he did have an answer, one that made his insides shrink and his mind divide, one side cowering and the other raging against this ridiculous sense of pointless anxiety. Vee'rana was dead, the queen was gone, John was home and yet all wasn't right in the world unless he had the means to lock a stupid door. He hated it, but hated worse knowing there was going to be more crap to come just like it unless he got it together.

Rodney's expression softened for a moment before tightening in alarm, then softening again into guilt. "Okay. I won't, I promise. No more barging in. And I'm sorry I did. We should have waited, knocked more..."

John shook his head. "That's okay." Except it wasn't. Whatever happy little illusion of safety that lock had provided was gone, now. He'd liked that illusion.

"Well, obviously it's not," Rodney replied a little tersely. "Look, I'll change the coding, make it harder to get in. Although not too hard or else you might not be able to get out..."

"Rodney, you don't have to -"

"Yes, yes I do. It's the least I can do for what I did. I could even pass-word protect it or something... if you want." He cleared his throat uneasily. "So, uh, still not hungry? It's cereal. Cheerios."

John finally took a real look at his breakfast: a snack-sized box of cheerios, glass, bowl, carton of milk, bowl of fruit pieces and orange juice – real food instead of liquid or mush. He flipped the locks clamping the wheels and rolled closer to the tray. The sudden lack of privacy sat like a weighted lump in the back of his skull. However, it felt like an eternity since he'd had cereal.

"Need any help?" Rodney asked. "Opening the box, pouring...?"

John picked up the box, looked at it, looked at his arm still hanging in a sling, and then ripped the flimsy top off the box using his teeth.

"Never mind," Rodney said. He stood there, mulling in a moment of maladroit silence before finally pointing toward the door. "Guess I should go get my own breakfast and get started on that."

John's sudden realization that he was going to be alone once Rodney walked out that door jolted him as he poured the milk, splattering a few drops on the tray. "You could eat here. Or, you know, eat and work at the same time or… or... something." He winced at the blatant desperation as well as at having been quite content to be alone only a few hours ago.

Rodney perked up as though he'd been offered the last of the chocolate-chip muffins. "Yeah. Yeah, I can do that. I'll be right back." He trotted out of the room. The silence John had been hoping to avoid wrapped heavy around him like a closing fist. He forced himself to eat, concentrating on taking one bite after another, sipping juice in between to keep it down, listening to the Cheerios crunch loud in his skull blessedly pushing back the stifling silence. It wasn't until Rodney returned with a loaded tray in hand that Sheppard's stomach started cooperating.

McKay settled on the bed instead of by the door, launching into a mild tirade about the ineptitude of those who couldn't read a requisition form correctly, because once again he was stuck with having to use non-reusable CDs. John just listened. Who knew inane chatter could be so relaxing?

------------------------------------

Eating in Sheppard's room became an unexpected routine that Ronon and Teyla joined in on the very next day. Breakfast, lunch, dinner; they were always there and always the ones bringing John's food. As they talked, he listened and liked it that way. Eating escalated to activities such as movie night and board games, even video games (or at least the ones Teyla and Ronon had figured out how to play). John liked that even better. It was a distraction, eating hours and thought-space between the time he woke up to the next time he slept. The soft chatter of people he knew didn't allow room for distant whispers that his fragile imagination twisted into giddy girlish humming, echoing wails, or the sobs of children, who'd lost their mother to premature aging and didn't even know it.

_Because of me._

He was starting to form a dependency on company just so he could sleep. If the gang left too soon before his mind could settle on a dream, then the humming would come, or screaming, or the echoing and breathy voice of a female wraith commanding him to kneel. Without someone present to distract him, sleep was impossible.

In between the in-between was a nurse making the daily-house call to check his lungs, blood pressure, heart-rate, and how he was sleeping, as well as see how long he could last walking around the room. His team's presence helped that along, too. With them around, he could walk more without worrying about doing a face-plant in the floor.

After a week, he was finally showing some improvement. He had more energy, enough to walk to the infirmary instead of being wheeled. There was more density to his bones, enough to make Carson happy though not satisfied, which went double for the four pounds John managed to gain.

"You can start taking meals in the mess, now," Carson said on day eight of John being out of the infirmary. His infirmary check-ups were every two days, which Carson said could now be extended to every four days unless complications arose. Beckett placed his stethoscope around his neck then handed John his shirt. "Either early or later would be best so long as you miss the crowds. Granted it'll take more than a bump to damage your bones but I'd rather you not risk it. The thing is: it's not healthy that you stay cooped up in your quarters for so long. You need to get out and about, lad. Take your meals on the nearest balcony if you must, just so long as you're getting some fresh air into those lungs."

John needed a little help tugging his shirt back on. Carson helped him steer it around the arm connected to his still-tender shoulder and he handled yanking it the rest of the way down.

Freedom to roam. It was a novel concept but... but... There was a 'but' in there somewhere. John could feel it, he just couldn't find it. He gave Carson an uncertain look. "You sure? You don't think it's a little premature?"

Carson blinked and seemed to balk slightly as though John had said something he hadn't considered. "Well... I'm not saying you have to, I'm just saying you can is all." He continued giving John a nervous but funny look that wasn't helping the matter any. John knew what it was all about.

Lt. Colonel John "put me on light duty already" Sheppard second guessing permission to leave his own room. No, not second guessing, looking for excuses not to, and Carson obviously caught on when his features softened. "If you don't feel you're ready..."

The nerves along John's spine prickled flushing the heat of righteous indignation through the rest of his body. He stiffened, but that was as far as he would allow himself to go. Carson was just trying to help and like hell he was going to bury the guy for it. "No, it's not that. I meant... health-wise."

Carson perked up as though taking a cue. "Oh, aye, that's what I meant as well. Not, you know, _mentally_ ready... I mean that, too, but that's up to you and all."

John nodded more vigorously. "Yeah, I know, and I am." And he added with a nervous grin, "Can't stay in my room forever."

Carson smiled back, giving him a reassuring clap on the shoulder. "Off with you, then."

John slid off the table, adjusting his shirt more comfortably around his body, and headed out. A generous helping of people moved through the halls maintaining a wide enough berth to keep the corridors from feeling crowded. He didn't get what his problem was. He had no issues with moving through the halls so the mess hall shouldn't be any different. And Carson had a point – it wasn't healthy being hold up in one little room for too long. Given time, he'd either go white enough to glow in the dark or end up building a desk out of the trays the team brought, writing manifestos full of wraith conspiracy theories, and why various governments sucked.

By the time he got back to his room, his team was already there with dinner. Although he doubted one more day would turn him into a paranoid hermit.

--------------------------------

"And I thought Carson was just being paranoid," said Rodney. "I hadn't considered a possible elbow-bump turning you into a pile of saw-dust." He was leading the way down the hall to the commissary, chipper in an I-told-you-so kind of way, as though he'd known Sheppard was ready to return to the populace before Carson. Or maybe he was just happy to be able to eat in the mess again, with tables and chairs instead of fighting gravity to keep his tray on his lap.

"That's kind of exaggerating it," John replied. "Don't you think?"

"Exaggeration is like art – more expressive."

John shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and gave a non-committal grunt. As much as he was gung-ho to prove to himself that his psyche had not been shredded, he was still searching for the 'but' that would be his excuse for a dignified retreat back to his room. He figured it was people – people he barely knew, partially knew, soldiers under his command possibly coming up to him to ask how he was or out and out try to start up a conversation with him. He'd been there and done that enough times for it to bud into an even less than pleasant experience the next time around. Their small talk could be infuriating, all that hovering and stuttering and wide-eyed hero-worshiping as though he were the stuff of action/adventure legends, all because a wraith had chewed him up and spat him back out young and alive. He couldn't really blame them their shock over him making off like a bandit when he should have been dead. But all that damn hovering, closing in, continuing the denial of his personal space...

Sheppard slowed. Maybe that could be his excuse, because if the expedition thought him a lucky bastard before, they were going to look at him as a down-right freak now. Or possible traitor. The catch was: he would have to face it all eventually. The catch to the catch was that there was never any saying when it would all end. Some still ogled him like he was the walking dead since he'd been fed on by Kolya's wraith; like he shouldn't be alive or didn't have a right to be, either giving people too much hope or scaring the crap out of them. John was a walking, talking metaphor for how far this galaxy could go in terms of being weird.

He just hoped he wouldn't have to deal with any of the biologists or medical community wanting to look at him through a microscope.

John was sure he had his excuse and was ready to use it when the mess doors slid open drowning him in the low but steady drone of numerous voices. They entered the mess that was a little more crowded than it should have been for this late into dinner-time. John dropped his gaze to the floor to avoid eye-contact and openings for conversation.

"Oh, meatloaf," Rodney exclaimed. "You can have meatloaf, right, Sheppard? I thought I heard Carson say solids were back on the menu."

John followed after his team through the line but didn't have a choice in letting them handle loading up a tray for him. "Yeah, meatloaf's fine."

Out of the line, John was the first to sit, Rodney setting his tray in front of him. He picked up his plastic fork with the intent of shoveling as much meat into his mouth before his appetite was killed, but paused.

The meatloaf was looking particularly red, drowning in ketchup that dripped in pinky-sized puddles surrounding brown meat veined in the white of moistened breadcrumbs and egg. John stared at it. For a moment, a span of a heartbeat but feeling a hell of a lot longer, he thought he caught the faint scent of metallic rot and unwashed bodies. He fluttered his eyes to moisten them but refused an all-out blink. One blink, one second that would be less than a second, and he would see it: meat on hooks, glossy with blood looking black in the poor light, dark muscle bordered by white fat and ligaments. The muscles of John's wrists and hands tightened. Crap, he could still feel the vibrations of the knife cutting through bone, hot blood going cold and congealing tacky on his skin...

"Hey Sheppard!"

John flinched hard enough to send the fork flying from his hand to clatter on Ronon's tray. Unperturbed, Ronon picked it up and handed it back.

"You okay?" he asked.

John took the fork back with a sheepish grin. "Yeah, fine."

"I'm surprised you're still in your seat." Rodney was giving him a bug-eyed look of alarm as though Sheppard had told him daisies were popping out of the table. "Good gosh, jump any higher and you would have given yourself a concussion on the ceiling. What the hell bit you?"

"Rodney!" Teyla hissed.

"What!" McKay snapped. He looked from Teyla to John, staring for a moment, seeing something that immediately softened his expression into concern. He had his hand holding a loaded fork hovering above his plate. A drop of ketchup patted softly, John could hear it above all the voices murmuring distant and muffled behind him. He looked back at his own meal, stomach recoiling.

"I, um," he swallowed back the bile trying to claw its way up his throat. "Was there anything else besides meatloaf?"

"Fried chicken," Rodney quickly replied. "You want that instead? I can get that."

John wasn't sure. Any appetite he had was now buried under the beginnings of nausea. But if he didn't at least try to eat something, then Beckett was going to drag him to the infirmary for a battery of tests that would reveal nothing. And he was tired of tests. Too much touching involved.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, that'll be fine."

Rodney was already moving, grabbing John's plate to exchange it. John kept his eyes glued on his now partially empty tray to avoid the expressions of worry he could feel burning holes in his head. It was distracting and not in a good way. Wiping his fork clean, he poked at the tiny Styrofoam bowl of salad to preoccupy himself. A body passed within three feet of him and he jumped flicking Italian dressing. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, heads turned his way. Maybe not his way, precisely, but the general direction made it feel like they were looking at him. A brief glance, mere seconds, revealed the majority of gazes looking beyond him and a few looking at then beyond. Bored people letting their eyes wander, nothing more. They weren't watching him, staring at him. They were just looking around.

Sheppard wished they wouldn't, because he couldn't get himself to ignore it and, again, for reasons he knew damn well why but chose to ignore, it was freaking him out.

_I'm no one special. I'm no one. Stop looking at me, just stop!_

He stabbed a cucumber and shoved it in his mouth, chewing without tasting even against the dressing numbing his jaw with its tang.

A plate of fried chicken slid onto his tray. "Here we go!" McKay enthusiastically chirped. John jumped while managing to keep hold of his fork. He looked down at the chicken – tan, crispy chicken of the likes that couldn't really be compared to anything. He could eat this, he could eat this fine.

"Well?"

John looked up at Rodney who was back in his seat and leaning slightly forward in tempered expectation, as if eating the chicken would be some kind of sign of approval. Not wanting to disappoint (or garner more concerned expressions) Sheppard picked at the crispy to get to the meat, popping a sliver of shredded white into his mouth. Rodney relaxed with a relieved smile back into his own meal that John averted his eyes from.

The chicken made a dent of a difference. Sheppard's appetite had been hindered and if he so much as saw a flash of red dripping from a mound of meat out of his peripheral, it became temporarily shot to hell. By the time the others had cleaned their plates, John had de-crisped the two pieces of chicken, picked the salad clean of cucumbers, and managed five bites of white meat.

"Yep," Rodney said, wiping his hands clean on a now greased-up napkin then tossing it onto his tray. "Carson's going to be _real_ pleased when he hears about this."

John managed to shove a sixth sliver of meat into his mouth. "Why, is he keeping tabs on me?"

"I wouldn't hold it passed him," Rodney replied.

John forced three more bites of meat and two bites of salad, finishing off the milk to help him wash it all down before it had a chance to come back up. "Better?"

Rodney gave him a heavy-lidded look. "Probably not."

John looked down at his tray, at the mutilated food he would have picked clean down to the bone - probably eating the bone to boot – in the wraith cell. He felt like he was wasting it, but if he forced one more bite it would all end up being pointless, anyways.

"Dr. Beckett said that John's appetite might not be up to handling large portions of solids," Teyla said, and John wanted to hug her. "I do not think it wise to push him, Rodney."

Although, it wouldn't have been Rodney if he didn't try. John felt it preferable to the concerned looks, especially when Rodney's expression joined them. This was a battle of wills he was seeing between trying for what was considered normal, while playing it safe to prevent John from having some kind of a public break down. He hated it with a passion but sure as hell couldn't hold it against them. It was hard to ignore near panic-attacks over red meat or the ketchup accompanying it.

They had every right to be cautious. Sheppard couldn't even trust himself.

_So what right do you have to ask them to continue trusting you?_

Thank goodness for topics to alter the subject. "So, uh... what do you guys wan to do now? It's early and I'm not tired yet, so..."

"What would you like to do?" Teyla asked. The team slipped smoothly into denial of John's sporadic jumping-out-of-his-skin having happened.

Rodney snapped his fingers and pointed with an epiphany-like brightened expression on his face. "We could go to the rec room? We had to replace the screen when this grunt got pissed over his football, basketball... I don't know, some team lost and he threw his boot at it. We were able to install something larger – a practical movie screen. Well, okay, not quite that big but still pretty damn big. Or we could go back to your room, play some video games... Oh! Haverton from engineering put a home-made air-hockey table together. He's kind of being an ass about who can use it, but I'm sure Ronon could scare him into letting us play a few rounds. Any of those sound good?"

John shrugged. He was tempted to go back to his room, but it was a desire he needed to continue to fight for the time being. Fun as air-hockey sounded, with one arm in a sling and his body quick about rebelling, he doubted he'd last long. "A movie sounds good."

Rodney immediately snorted. "Oh come on! That's all we've been doing..."

Ronon just as quickly silenced him with a look. Rodney snapped his jaw shut, cleared his throat, and composed himself. "But what's one more?"

"We could do something else?" John said. In all honesty he wasn't really up to anything. Neither did he want to be alone. And yet, neither did he want to have to make a decision. He'd probably agree to watch paint dry if someone suggested it, so long as it provided some kind of a distraction or let him to fall asleep without dreaming, which was pretty damn pathetic. So, obviously, neither did he want to avoid doing anything since life didn't stop just because it sucked.

Rodney opened his mouth, possibly ready to suggest air hockey, when a stern look from Teyla made him slump in defeat. "No, no. A movie's fine."

They dumped their trays, Ronon doing the honors for John, and then headed out.

The rec-room had quite a nice video library with metal racks of DVDs with people's initials written in black ink on the back of the boxes. The expedition members didn't mind sharing but couldn't quite reach the level of giving for the common good when it came to what was theirs.

"Actually," Rodney said, flipping through the DVD cases, "seeing as how we've watched all these ten times already, we could borrow Benton's X-box. He owes me when that frog-squirrel thing he was studying got into my room and ate my socks."

John dropped onto the couch with legs stretched in front, one ankle crossed over the other, simply content to be away from crowds and curious eyes. "We could do that. Bet Halo would be pretty kick-ass on this screen."

Rodney spun around on his heels moving fast toward the door. "I'll go get it, then." Only to be brought to an abrupt halt when his way was blocked. A group of five dressed in the beige and blues of one of the science divisions packed into the doorway, heads twitching like startled gophers as they took in the team. The leader – Carlton, Carmicheal, Car-something... short, squat guy with a receding hairline and wire-rim glasses – carried a box set of DVDs under one arm and wore a look like a parent having just caught their kids getting into the liquor cabinet.

"What the hell is this?" He even sounded like a parent having just caught their kids getting into the liquor cabinet. He straightened with one hand on his hip, and John already pitied this man's future progeny. "Dr. McKay, what are you doing here?"

"What does it look like we're doing?" Rodney shot back. "It's a recreation room, we're recreating. What the hell are you doing here demanding what we're doing here?"

Car-something drummed his fingers against his hip, holding up the box-set in one hand – Season two of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine. "It's Tuesday night. We had this room booked."

Rodney's eyes rolled. "For crying, freakin' out loud, Carlyle!"

Carlyle, that was his name, part of the geology department.

"You have this room booked every damn night! And for the last damn time this isn't a hotel and standing up during staff meetings and announcing what you're going to watch tonight isn't booking anything when you can just watch the freakin' show in someone's room. Now, as much as I loathe falling back on the elementary school laws of ownership - we were here first. So go find some other room to book because you're not having this one."

Carlyle, however, stood his ground by taking a step forward. "Rules of quantity, Dr. McKay. I have more people in my group, therefore more room is needed. So why don't _you_ go find another room."

"Because I'm head of the science department."

Carlyle smirked. "We're off the clock."

McKay's eyes narrowed to sharp slits. It was like watching a geek remake of _The Good, the Bad and the Ugly_. "That still doesn't stop me from rearranging lab schedules to my little heart's content."

Carlyle's eyes narrowed back. "You wouldn't."

"Try me."

The two scientists stood toe to toe with inches between them. Carlyle's gang flocked in closer until Ronon stepped up next to McKay. Then, they quickly backed off.

John watched it play out into a standoff that he half-expected would come to blows but knowing it wouldn't, not with Ronon and the threat of rearranged lab times hanging over the group's heads. But it certainly wouldn't be resolved. Carlyle would go to Weir, providing another excuse for her to pop some Tylenol later on, and McKay would argue his point until Elizabeth either agreed or a compromise was reached.

"Could we not simply all watch this show?" Teyla suggested, moving to stand on Rodney's other side. She was damn good at the peace-making stuff. However, it only worked if the other party was willing to settle for a peaceful solution.

Carlyle practically bristled. "You weren't invited."

"Fred!" a petite, red-headed woman admonished in a high-toned voice that could shatter glass without effort.

Carlyle pointed a rigid finger at McKay. "Last time you sat in with us, all you did was pick the show apart."

"You were watching Flash Gordon. It was_begging _to be picked apart..."

"You pick apart everything, even the stuff you _claim_ you like!"

John sighed, feeling both weary and inexplicably agitated. Maybe because of the noise: louder than the mess and growing louder by the second, making his ears ring and his head throb. This was messed up. One little decision, he made one little harmless decision only to have it all go down the toilet as though the very decision-making process were spiting him. It was made even worse by the realization that, once upon a time, he would have inserted himself between the two groups by now, either forcing Teyla's compromise or telling Carlyle to beat it since McKay did have a point about them being here first.

John stood with all intents and purposes to do just that-- except he didn't want to. He just didn't give enough of a damn to make the effort, and the noise was making it hard to think. Instead, he took Rodney by the arm, tugging at him until McKay snapped his head around with an irate "What!"

Johns' involuntary flinch resulted in a sudden salving of McKay's demeanor and voice. "I mean, uh, you need something?"

"Yeah, um," John rubbed nervously at the back of his neck. The noise was replaced by gradual silence and numerous eyes staring his way. He could feel them watching him, studying him, and suddenly he longed for the cacophony. "Listen, I'm kind of feeling tired so I was thinking, if we're just going to watch movies, to go ahead and do it in my room. If I'm going to crash I'd rather not have to get up later just to move from point A to point B. Is that okay?"

Rodney nodded without hesitation. "Uh, yeah, sure, that's fine. We can do that." He then turned his attention back to Carlyle, sympathy exchanged for a scowl. "You get the damn room, Carlyle, now move it."

The smug smirk on the geologist's face pricked John with a feeling of guilt over Rodney's defeat. Beneath the guilt twinged sudden self-loathing. He tried to tell himself, "You didn't give in, you really are tired," which was the truth. It just didn't feel that way. He couldn't leave the room fast enough when Carlyle and his pack parted for them to exit. John led the way back up the hall to the living section, then into the quiet of his room.

"John, are you all right?" Teyla asked.

John grabbed a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of sweat pants from his drawer. "Fine. Just tired." He slipped into the safety his bathroom. When he set the clothes on the toilet seat, he realized his hands were shaking. He looked from his hands to the mirror over the sink, into pin-pricked nervous eyes sunken in a pale, hallow face – like staring into the eyes of a spooked animal, instincts of fight or flight sitting on a hair-trigger waiting for that one right twitch to set it all off. He had never realized what a constant companion tension had become. He could feel it simmering under his skin, plucking at his muscles and pumping his heart. The shaking moved from his hands into his bowed shoulders. He leaned forward, gripping the cool metallic rim of the bathroom sink.

A frightened animal stared back at him.

_I'm home, I'm safe... Why the hell won't it stop? I'm home, safe. Home..._

_You're not supposed to be... don't deserve to be... not supposed to..._

The fear stayed. John reached out with quaking fingers. He touched the mirror and then touched his own face just under his right eye. The skin was cool, thin. He could almost feel his pulse beneath it thrumming fast and wild, sharp bone, twitching muscles.

_That's not me. _

He pressed harder causing intentional pain that felt more like remembered pain, distant and detached.

_That shouldn't be me._

John cringed. "Who the hell are you?"

TBC...


	20. Looking Through the Looking Glass

A/N: Thank you, once again, to all who have reviewed, and to Drufan for the beta and help with chapter titles.

Ch. 19

Looking Through the Looking Glass

Sunshine, blue skies and wind carrying sea-spray and smelling of brine – the complete antithesis of where he'd been taken up into a dart – did very little to distract John from the fact that he was still out in the open. Although he felt himself doing a good enough job at pretending to ignore it. The only flaw in his mask was his limited appetite, constant pounding heart, and perpetual tension in his muscles. His appetite and tension made it obvious to the others, but he didn't care. He would sit outside in the open, day and night, if he had to, if it got the paranoia to shut up.

Then there was Teyla, whose idea it had been to take lunch outside. John thought it a good and harmless enough plan until he'd stepped out onto the pier to be hit with the desire to turn tail and run back inside. For once, his stubborn streak was working in his favor, because no way was he going to give into cowering behind walls.

However, because of his painfully obvious discomfort, Teyla was uncomfortable, and was hiding her guilt about as well as John was hiding his unease.

"We can take the rest of our lunch in your quarters," she suggested.

John shook his head, pushing for a modicum of content. "No, this is fine." He stabbed his plastic fork into the beige and brown lump that was some kind of casserole. "I needed the fresh air."

"Not to mention a little sun," Rodney muttered. "I bet you can glow in the dark."

Sheppard smirked. "Pot and kettle, He-Who-Wears-Sunscreen-Like-Clothes."

"I thought we agreed not to keep giving each other Indian names, Man-Whose-Hair-Defies-Gravity."

"My memory's been a little shoddy, lately, Dances-With-Coffee." John's eyes moved fast to and from the sky. "It's nice out here," he said, part truth and part cover-up for the action. "I'm glad we did this."

His sincerity was enough to get Teyla to relax a little. John didn't relax until he announced that he'd eaten all he could handle and they were back inside. There was no happy medium for him in any of this. He was uncomfortable anywhere but his room, then uncomfortable in his room when he caved to the impression of hiding from the world. He fought back against both but it was exhausting. It was also making Carson less than pleased.

Once back inside Atlantis, John parted from his team heading toward the mess to dump the trays while he veered toward the infirmary for his next check-up. He was early, yet Carson was waiting and ready with the needed instruments out and the scanner warmed up. First came the required weigh-in. Carson pulled the privacy curtain as John removed his shoes, then blue sweater, tossing it onto the bed. Beckett liked a two-way visual assessment in numbers and current visibility of bone. The scale said a pound was gained, but the body wasn't exactly advertising it. John could still see his own ribs down to the floaters and the point of his breast-bone. Also, there was the fact that he'd just eaten to consider. A full stomach added on ounces.

"You have been eating, though," Carson said as he jotted the number down. His eyes moved from the clipboard to Sheppard. "Right?"

John nodded slowly. "I have been eating."

"But your appetite is still giving you trouble."

"Not as bad if I'm eating in my room."

"So why don't you eat in your room?"

John placed his hands on his jutting hip-bones and gnawed his lip, figuring what answer would be best to give. He wasn't really up to admitting the heavy stuff. Confession was a one-shot deal for him and he was saving it for Heightmeyer and the mandatory counseling to make it worth it.

"I shouldn't have to," he said at last.

Carson jotted something else down before finally tucking the clipboard under his arm to regard Sheppard full-on. "Aye, well... between your body and your brain it's your body that needs the most attention. Sometimes, it's best to focus on a problem one piece at a time. Get your strength back up to par, then the rest won't be so much of an ordeal."

John backed off the scale toward the bed and hauled himself onto the edge. "I prefer handling issues on the move if you get my meaning." He straightened enough to give Beckett easier access to his chest. Carson placed his stethoscope over John's heart, listened for a moment, and then released the bell to free up his hands so he could type the results into his PC tablet.

"And your daily walks don't cut it?" he asked.

John shrugged. "Doesn't get my heart pumping the way I like. Running distracts me from the outside world since I'm moving too fast to really notice it. You can't help looking around while walking."

Carson gave him an apologetic grimace. "Well, it'll just have to do until myself and your bone-density says otherwise." He moved on to listening to John's breathing. After that it was time to get scanned. Carson led the way to the machine.

"I need something I can do outside my quarters besides eating, Doc," John admitted. "I feel like I'm barely ever out of there." He stretched himself out on the cool bed of the scanner, pressing his arms to his sides and his palms flat. "I need to expand my horizons before they shrink any narrower." The machine, already humming, hummed louder as the bed slid into the opening. It was less than a minute long process and he was sliding out when he'd barely slid in. Carson and the tech were already mumbling with their heads bent toward the view-screen, pointing out this and that using their pens.

John sat up, periodic shivers turning into solid shivers. "So, what's the verdict? Can I get dressed and stop freezing my ass off?"

"Sorry, lad," Carson said inattentively, still preoccupied with the screen. "Everything looks better. Bones are healing nicely and bone-density more to my liking. Not that you're ready to start eating up the miles in a fun-run, but you won't have to worry about potentially breaking another rib if someone so much as pokes you. Oh, and it looks like you don't need the sling anymore."

Sheppard fought against wrapping his arms around his chest to conserve warmth. Why did Carson always have to have it so damn cold in here? "G-goody."

The Scottish doctor's head shot up in alarm. "Oh, colonel, I'm sorry, lad. Didn't mean to leave you freezing." He hurried to the bed, grabbing John's shirt to bring it over.

The sling might not have been needed, but John's collar-bone still felt tender, and he winced as he pulled his shirt on. "Does that mean physical therapy time?" Physical therapy meant more exercise and an activity beyond watching the same movies for the umpteenth time.

"Aye, that it does. I'll be setting up a schedule for you. Listen, John, you don't need an excuse to leave your quarters. Well, not any more at any rate. Yes, granted, I'd prefer you eat more. Nevertheless you're doing fine enough that your strength is now at where you can wander about the city without worrying about collapsing in exhaustion... as long as you don't over do it, of course. If you start getting tired, you either rest or head back, but you're at the point where you don't need a set time and place to do a little walking about."

"Wow," John drawled flatly, "progress. Didn't think it was possible."

Carson's response was a wry smirk and a good-humored, "Off with you, now you cheeky bugger."

--------------------------------

Vee'rana hummed and giggled like a sadistic little imp crouched in the shadows where John couldn't see her. He didn't expect to see her, not with the queen looming over him, her clammy hand like fish-skin caressing the bare skin of his chest, searching for just the right spot.

"Human hearts can beat at such impossible speeds with the right incentive," she purred. "Dear Anja's heart beat faster than yours. It had fluttered, light and fragile as a little bird. Poor Anja and her little ones. Did she deserve to die, John?"

She pulled her hand back and slammed it into his chest, pressing, crushing his sternum. Molten pain melted his bones. "Did you deserve to live?"

John screamed.

He opened his eyes and gasped. Shadows played games with him, morphing shape until settling into the familiar geometries of his room and things. The humming and screaming faded like echoes. His heart, however, wouldn't stop trying to pulverize itself and the pain...

The pain wouldn't stop. He brought his hand to his chest, rubbing, feeling the details of his breastbone right through skin and cloth. And the pain - like a fist trying to squeeze him. John curled up against it, shaking and choking back a sob.

-------------------------------

So much time and so little to do. Sheppard wandered just to be wandering, reacquainting himself with his city beyond the short, round-about circuit that had been his assigned route for his walks – never far from his room and always where human traffic was at least present if not heavy. He hadn't minded it since it had been a means of getting out of his room, although, he doubted he'd be able to go back to it if he had to. It was one of those situations of being content with what you had until gaining something better.

Wandering eventually brought him to the gate room where he stood at the top of the steps, feet slightly spread and hands in his jeans pockets. He would agree with Beckett that this was some kind of progress. Real progress – truly getting back on the horse called 'his life' – would involve stepping through that giant alien ring dominating the Gate Room floor... and being excited about it.

He had the desire, just not his usual impatience for the moment of truth. Too premature after being gone for so long, he supposed. Kind of hoped so, too, because if he couldn't bring himself to step through another event horizon, then he might as well pack up now.

John turned away from the ring to face the control room that was bustling but not really busy. He could see Elizabeth, bright red shirt within the beige and blue, leaning over a console as a tech pointed something out on a laptop.

It was so every day. John felt like he was outside looking in. Literally outside, elsewhere, watching through a monitor or view-screen. Or maybe a scene through a window, a home or museum exhibit. Look but don't touch. That was the consequence, the bane, of being gone so long. There was a rhythm he was once a part of that he now had to reintegrate himself back into, and a hesitation to do so out of fear of making that rhythm stumble.

It made him feel... not so much like a stranger, nothing that extreme. It made him feel like the space he had occupied he no longer fit into, and until that space reformed or a new space was discovered, then he didn't really fit anywhere. He just was, drifting like wayward debris.

It made being in the Gate Room, near the control room, uncomfortable; like he wasn't supposed to be here.

_Maybe you don't deserve to be here. Ever consider that?_

The muscles of John's back quivered, rippling through the rest of his body, and he twitched his head. He would have walked in just to say hi but Elizabeth would probably take it as a cue that he wanted to talk. It wasn't that he didn't want to, just that Elizabeth looked busy and it wasn't as though he had a lot of conversation subject matter on hand. She sometimes dropped by during lunch or dinner to see how he was and to catch up, anyways. He could wait until then.

Plus he was getting a little antsy the way people kept glancing in his direction.

John turned away again, leaving fromthe gate room. He already knew Ronon would be out running. He'd always gone longer than Sheppard and John doubted he'd altered the routine. It would be another twenty minutes before the runner returned. So John headed to the gym.

Just like with Ronon, Teyla had her morning rituals that a person could set their watch to. He found her in the gym unfolding from one of her complicated stretches and flowing to her feet sinuous as a cat. She retrieved her sticks from the bench, turned, and jumped. "Colonel!"

John flinched in response feeling suddenly like a voyeur even though he'd only been there for less than a minute. "Hey Teyla," he said. "Sorry I spooked you."

Teyla walked lightly on bare feet to the center of the mat. "You did not 'spook' me," she said with a small smile. "I was merely not expecting you. The gym is very quiet during this time."

John hunched his shoulders in a wince. "Oh. Well... Carson gave me the go-ahead to walk where I please and it turns out there's not really all that many places to go. Anyway, I just thought I'd drop by and, uh..."

Teyla twirled one stick, curling the corners of her mouth in a smirk. "Watch?"

John winced again. "I was going to say observe. Less dirty sounding. Since I can't really participate, then I thought I could learn via a visual aid. Namely you. That okay?"

Teyla's smirk shifted to a genuine smile. "That is fine, so long as it involves only observation."

John smiled back and made himself comfortable on the bench. He was sure Teyla was simply catering to his need to stifle boredom. The routine she ran through was complicated, with twists and turns that made his bones ache just watching. He'd always considered stick-fighting like a dance, but what Teyla was doing was more Cirque De Sole-like acrobatics: beautiful, hypnotic, art in motion, while at the same time freaky in what his brain kept trying to register as impossible. Each move morphed liquid smooth into the next, a foot cutting through the air to set down on the floor while the torso continued to move, an arm arching overhead then out for the next arm to follow immediately after. No stopping, no time allowed to question the next set of motions, all watery grace as though unhindered by bone. It was like a circle with no beginning or end. Something M.C. Escher would have totally appreciated.

It further solidified John's opinion that he would never reach the point of ever beating Teyla unless she was off her game. It left him slack-jawed with awe, trepidation, and a little relief that she had never stepped things up to this current level. She could have done him some serious damage.

It was also making him self-conscious: hyper-aware of the ineptitude of his own body, the lingering aches and the depletion of muscle.

_At least your body's still working, still alive... unlike certain people._

John twitched his head quiet.

It was a thirty minute work-out that covered Teyla's skin in a thin film of sweat, matting her hair and leaving her breathless. She tossed her sticks aside to grab her towel and wipe the film off.

John stared at her, still gaping. "Wow. That was just... wow."

Teyla grinned. "Much of what you saw was merely for exercise purposes. In a fight, many of the moves would have left me open and vulnerable on certain sides."

John gave her an odd look. She didn't act like she was messing with him, or down-playing her skills. "Hate to be on the wrong end of the actual fighting moves," he said.

Teyla dabbed her face with the towel. "But someday you will be if you wish to progress." She set the towel on top of her tawny home-made bag. "I did not ask how you were this day. Have you had breakfast? I did not know you had started waking this early. Dr. Beckett usually has us wait to visit you so that you can receive as much sleep as possible."

John's heart thudded. "Yeah..." he squeaked, cleared his throat and tried again. "Yeah, well, I'm usually an early bird. I mean I try to sleep longer but half the time just lay there staring at the ceiling." _Listening to creepy dead girls hum and hoping I don't dream. _"I finally figured, what's the point? So just got up."

Teyla's smile turned a little strained. A humoring kind of smile. "Ah." She didn't believe him, but neither was she going to harangue him about it. "Then you can join me for breakfast. We can have it in my room for a change of scene."

"How about I take a rain check for now," he said.

Teyla's lips dropped into a frown. "John..."

He held up his hand. "I know, I know. I'm going to have breakfast, I swear. I just need to work up a little more of an appetite first. Do some more walking around, maybe. I'm usually not eating this early, anyways. No point in altering the schedule just when my body's starting to adjust."

Teyla was skeptical and didn't try to hide it. "All right. I do need to clean up. Perhaps... in an hour?"

John nodded, keeping his relief internal. "An hour sounds good."

Teyla, still uncertain, left first as though to avoid having to say anything further. John dropped his gaze to his hands. She always acted so careful around him, like he was something delicate, walking a fine line she was trying not to push him over. It was hard not to notice while easy enough to ignore. He let her have her discomfort since he couldn't really dispute it.

But, sometimes, he wondered about it. He knew it was because she worried, cared. Yet a part of him – some cringing, cautious, paranoid part of him – spawned other ideas.

_Think she still trusts you?_

He wouldn't blame her if she didn't. He just hoped to high heaven she still did.

_Think you deserve it?_

John looked up. It was too quiet. His thoughts were always too loud and crowding in the silence and solitude. And to think it wasn't that long ago he'd craved solitude. Hell, he still did off and on, usually for about however long he could keep back the silence. He stood and hurried from the gym back into the distracting motion and hum of the occupied corridors.

John's feet brought him to the various labs until stumbling on the one he'd wanted. He hovered within the entrance, leaning up against it to watch. Not that there was much to watch. Just McKay hunched over his laptop clacking at what should have been impossible speeds. Curiosity got the better of John getting him to sidle up and peer over Rodney's shoulder.

"Uh, McKay?" he said.

Which caused Rodney's body to jolt and his hands to slip, adding a couple of typos to his formula. "Sheppard, jeez!"

John pointed to an equation. "That should be 1.2, not twelve."

"Not that it matters if I end up succumbing to heart failure, but thanks for the input," Rodney sneered. He typed in the correction. "So what do you need?"

John shrugged. "Just dropping by to see if you had breakfast yet. I was going to join Teyla in an hour if you wanted to join us."

"Already ate," Rodney said, still typing.

John stiffened, feeling like he did that time he'd called his best friend up to come over to play, only to be told his supposed best friend already had a friend over. "Oh. Okay, never mind, then." This was usually the part where John would have left, but he still wasn't hungry and didn't have any other place to go. So he hovered without really intending to, trying to decipher what Rodney's new formula would help solve today.

The clattering clicks of the keyboard stopped, Rodney's hands hovering intently over them. "Yes, colonel?"

"Just trying to figure out what you're doing," John said. "Calculating volume?"

"For the desalinization tanks. The water pressure's been a little low so we either have a leak or another clog." Rodney shuddered and muttered, "Better be a damn leak."

"Oh, yeah. Teyla told me about your run-in with the squid thing."

"What ever she had to say on the matter is probably an exaggeration."

John cocked an eyebrow at McKay. "This is Teyla we're talking about."

"Oh, and that makes her incapable of ever stretching the truth?"

"I have yet to see the contrary."

Rodney sighed, his whole body sagging into his chair. "Whatever. Listen, do you really find this fascinating? Because I find that rather hard to believe as it's boring me out of my skull. So there's obviously something else you want. Just ask it, please, that I may continue this monotony in relative privacy. Not that I don't appreciate company but this is starting to piss me off and the hovering isn't helping."

John immediately stepped back. Rodney hunched and the manic typing resumed. "Thank you. Now what else do you want?"

"Just," John started rubbing at the back of his neck contritely, "to hang out. You guys are always coming to me, I thought I'd come to you for a change... if that's cool. If you're really that busy I'll leave..."

Again the typing stopped, Rodney's back going rigid. He looked up from his laptop and swiveled around to face John full-on, his demeanor considerate as well as mildly surprised. "Really?"

John nodded. "Really. I was going to ask Ronon about doing stuff but he probably just got back from his run. I was with Teyla for a while until she had to go clean up..."

Rodney's body slumped as though his strings had been cut. "Oh. So that left me," he said, adopting an expression uncomfortably similar to a chastised dog.

John gave him a helpless shrug. "I... thought you might be busy." It was the truth. If Rodney wasn't finishing an all-nighter then he was usually just now easing himself back into what ever he'd left off the other day. John's choice of company had been like natural selection, going for the least busy and easiest to find. "I didn't want to bother you if you were."

Rodney's eyebrows arched toward his hairline as he considered John's reasoning, then frowned. "It never stopped you before." He stared at John, assessing him. There was a time Sheppard would have met that stare head on and tried to now. It was hard to, really hard, hindered by an irrational impression that if Rodney stared for too long he was going to see something that John would rather he didn't see. As ridiculous and illogical as it was, John's eyes dropped to the table, the floor, flitting everywhere except at Rodney. He felt like his insides were trying to shrivel up, and whatever appetite that might have been forming vanished like a snuffed candle.

"Well, um," he began, but his brain refused to fill in the blanks. "I..." he cringed. "Sorry?"

Rodney's eyes rounded over. "Oh, no, no, no, no, no. I didn't mean that... I wasn't trying to accuse you of anything. I was just saying is all. No, I appreciate the consideration." The chastised dog look was gone, booted out by panic. Where as Teyla walked on eggshells around him, Rodney fluctuated between being himself and about to have a nervous breakdown in trying to make amends for being himself.

It was a universal attitude with everyone, Ronon included try as he might not to be obvious about it. They all wanted the same thing, and that was for life to go back to the way it was before John had been taken. They wanted normal, but not at the price of John's well being. Which was all fine and good until it reached the point of him being treated like thin glass. He understood well enough to keep his mouth shut about it but, sometimes...

Sometimes it made him wonder too much; wonder what he was doing wrong, how he was acting different, and whether or not they were afraid for him or of him.

Obviously he hated it, but didn't have a damn clue how to change it, so didn't try so as to avoid the risk of making things worse. For all he knew, not saying anything was just as bad.

This is why he needed noise, company, distraction. He couldn't afford to think too much if he wanted to stay sane.

_Considering if you're even sane anymore._

John cleared his throat to shut-up his thoughts. "Well, it's not like you're obligated to entertain me. You have stuff you need to do and all."

Rodney nodded stiffly. "Yes, true. But it's not like it has to be done right this minute. I could probably go for a snack or something. Or you could proofread this," he jerked his thumb at the laptop, "when I'm done."

John smiled. "Sounds like a plan." It was a forced smile, already making his face ache. He had a sudden desire to bolt from the room. Ignoring it spread the ache through to his whole body.

-----------------------------------

_Did you deserve to live?_

John woke with a start, a gasp, heaving chest, hammering heart, and pain. The pain was fading but the rest remained strong. There was no rational thought left in him, only reaction. He jumped from his bed grabbing his blanket and pillow, walking fast out of his room, socked feet whispering across the smooth floor.

His room wasn't safe anymore. Never had been. Rodney had awoken him to the fact. He needed someplace new, maybe dark or small or...

Invisible. There was still no thinking involved. He was running on pure instinct driving him down one hall after another, straight to the Jumper bay and into the nearest Jumper. He busied himself laying out his blanket and pillow on the bench. It took the bay door shutting and the cloak to engage to finally settle his rapid heart. John dropped onto the bench.

He didn't think, couldn't afford to or he would think too much. He stretched himself out on the bench tugging the blanket up to his chin, closed his eyes, and listened. There was no way she could find him; no way anyone could find him.

But he still thought he heard humming.

TBC...

A/N: Poor, poor John (hugs him).


	21. Tepid Solutions

A/N: Happy Holidays to everyone.

Ch. 20

Tepid Solutions

John had to admit he'd done a pretty good job of piecing the stealth bomber together. He had finished it just before their mission of mercy that ended with him being culled. It was larger than his hand, glossy black plastic, hard enough and with plenty of details to make it more than a cheap toy. He took his model airplanes seriously, like iconic homages to flight. If it had wings or rotating blades that lifted it off the ground, John respected it.

He ran his thumb along the thin edge of the right wing. "Bombers aren't supposed to stay up in the air. They're not designed for it."

"Then how do they?" Kate Heightmeyer asked.

"Computers," John replied. "They compensate. Little tilt here, tilt there, and I mean little. Fraction of a fraction. Too small for a human pilot to handle. That's why bombers seem to fly so perfectly."

"Then why need a pilot at all?"

John smiled. "Because someone needs to deal with the computers. Plus, machines have no imagination."

"Have you ever flown a stealth bomber before?"

He shook his head. "No. I just like the concept of invisible aircraft." He glanced up briefly to see the intended grin on Kate's face. Rewarded, he returned to studying the plastic model. "The jumpers are smarter, but the bombers are better looking."

"Brains versus beauty."

"More like practical versus more practical. I've flown a dart. It's kind of like flying a jet but with a little less effort. I'd still take a jumper over a dart or bomber any day."

"Jumpers offer more safety."

John's hand stilled.

They had found him after all, or at least Rodney had using an LSD and simple logic. McKay had rambled on about thinking the jumper stolen, which was impossible since the whole city would know about it. If it wasn't scheduled, it didn't happen without a lot of noise and negative fanfare. Besides, one didn't need a medical doctor to find a missing jumper.

There had been no lecture about causing heart attacks by going missing. Not even a request to leave a note next time. They'd found him, ushered him back to his room, Carson did a vitals check and Rodney fetched him some breakfast. John was amazed he could still breathe under all the mothering. But he hadn't said anything since it was his fault everyone had panicked.

"Yeah," John said. "That, too."

"There's nothing wrong with what you did," said Kate. She was sitting across from him in his desk chair, one leg crossed over the other and hand clasped loosely on her knee. No notes, just him and her, both free of obligation, though John knew she would probably jot something down later.

"Except for the whole being an adult part. How the hell is running to a ship that can turn invisible any different from crawling into bed with mom and dad because a monster might be under my bed?"

"It isn't," she said. "It's instinct. It's being human. We all have a need to feel safe. The only difference is, this time, there really are monsters."

"Just not under my bed." John was sitting on that very bed per Kate's suggestion that they take the sessions in his quarters. She didn't say why so as not to patronize him with the obvious. He might have had a hard time sleeping in his room, but it was still his room, his territory, his comfort zone, and Kate wasn't going to force him out of it.

"Does it really matter where they are?" Kate continued. "Think of it as being five and having watched a scary movie. You had a scare, it's going to linger, and the need to feel safe isn't going to go away just because you want it to. I'm betting your night in the jumper was the best sleep you've had in days."

John's jaw tensed until the muscles twitched. This is why he'd never liked shrinks. They could make him feel more screwed up or too obvious, and he hated to think that he was that open, that easy to read. Except he was. Morticia had read him like a Dr. Seuss book. And that was the problem with being obvious: some knew how to use what they saw, like taking his own gun and shooting him with it.

Kate didn't push the question, which meant she had taken his silence as an affirmative. As much as he disliked shrinks, Heightmeyer's self-restraint made her a hell of a lot more tolerable. She didn't interrogate or dig. She allowed answers to come naturally by asking the right questions.

But she still made him feel obvious. The kicker was: he kind of didn't care. Yeah, it was annoying, but being so afraid that he'd huddled in the jumper just to feel a moment's safety was pissing him off.

It seemed too much like giving in.

_Which you've gotten pretty good at._

He finally looked up at Kate, meeting her gaze. "So how do I make it stop? I'm all for a good-night's sleep, but those benches about killed my back."

Kate shrugged as though it were apparent. "What you're doing now."

John chuckled caustically at that. "That easy, huh?"

"No, not that easy. You need time, patience, letting your mind realize that you're safe. And if it takes sleeping in a jumper, then sleep in a jumper."

John shook his head. "I can't. I can't give in to these damn phobias. I won't be able to do anything. Crap, I can't even stand outside for two minutes without wanting to bolt, so how the hell am I going to step through the gate when I'm finally able?"

"But you are trying," Kate said. "You have stepped outside. You're leaving your room, spending time with your team. You are doing what you need to. However, there are going to be circumstances in which you'll need to give in. Right now, being able to sleep is more important than being able to sleep in your room. Getting yourself to eat is more important than where you eat. It's all a simple matter of picking your battles and taking them one at a time, which you _are_ doing even if you don't realize it."

John set the plastic model on the bed so he could clasp his hands together between his knees to hide the fact that they had started to shake. "Doesn't feel like it."

"I know, John. Like I said, you need time and..."

John scowled. "Yeah, time, patience, I heard you the first time. The thing is, time has passed and I've been nothing but patient... and nothing's changed. People still act different around me and I can't shake the feeling that I need to be watching my own back every minute. I still flinch if someone so much as waves. I feel... I... I get nervous over stupid stuff, and sometimes I don't want to eat. Sometimes sleep. I swear the dreams are getting more vivid. You'd think with how long I've been home_something_ would have gotten better by now." He lifted his plaster-encased wrist. "Even this is taking its sweet time. I'm not naïve enough to expect some kind of overnight miracle, but if something's changed then I sure as hell don't know about it."

He expected an immediate response from Kate full of assurances and promises. What he got was silence. Heightmeyer was just staring at him, gaze turned inward, maybe searching for answers that would temporarily placate him. John didn't like the look - too much like the looks he'd received from commanding officers right before they told him another buddy of his had died. He actually would have preferred being placated.

"I don't know what to tell you," she said, trying to sound professional, although John heard the underlying disappointment. Still, he appreciated the honesty.

He gave her a pale smile. "Not even that it'll eventually get better?"

"It will," she said. "But I won't lie to you. Sometimes it gets better; sometimes it gets worse before it gets better. You keep doing what you're doing now and change will eventually come. Although, it may be that you need to do more. We'll just have to wait and see."

John's shoulder's bowed. "I've never been good at waiting."

"But you are good at being persistent. Stubborn, even. Whatever happens next, you'll hold out. Trust in that."

--------------------------------------

Kate was surprised by the timing and circumstance. Her new position in the lunch line gave her a broader view of the mess, where she saw Sheppard's team sitting at one of the outside tables together. The convenience of it caught her off guard. And here she'd been thinking about calling them all in for an impromptu session as soon as lunch was over. It was usually the norm for them to be eating with Sheppard, which meant that today he was either resting or visiting Carson for another long check-up.

A prod to her arm by the person behind her snapped her from her observations to start loading up her tray. She headed over to the team's table, shoving back hesitation. "May I join you?"

All three looked up at her. Ronon shrugged, Rodney scowled, and Teyla smiled. "Of course, Dr. Heightmeyer."

Kate slid into the seat next to Teyla. The table was distanced from the rail for her to see sunlight flashing like crystal off the waves and shorter tower spires. It was why she always went for an early or late lunch, to be able to grab one of the outside tables. It was an oxymoron partnership of the view providing distraction and distraction allowing for clearer thinking. It was too easy for her mind to wander in the quiet without a focal point of some kind to ground her thoughts. Not that she had a short attention span – far from it – she just always had a lot to think on.

"How are you today?" she asked, unrolling her napkin-wrapped utensils.

"We are well," Teyla replied.

"Sheppard's sleeping, which is why we're here," Rodney said, sounding on the defensive, "if that's what you're wondering. He said he wasn't hungry, but we're bringing him food later."

Kate smiled, letting the acerbic tone roll right off of her. "I know. He's been more active lately. It only stands to reason he would tire more easily until adjusted to it. It's good he's keeping busy."

McKay huffed. "Is that what you call it?" Then he grunted when Teyla elbowed him in the ribs. "He sleeps, he walks, and maybe might break the routine with a movie or two. He sits on a stool and watches me work for a half hour like it's the most fascinating thing in the world, which – I can promise you – it's not. The man is pathetically bored out of his skull and won't admit it."

"Not like he has much else he can do," Ronon said, popping a French-fry into his mouth. "Not until his bones heal."

Kate leaned with her elbows on the table and fingers entwined. "Col. Sheppard is more accustomed to having a busy schedule. He doesn't like being inactive. Can you blame him?"

"Not really," Rodney said. "But he's usually cleverer about filling up his schedule. He hasn't even asked to take any of the jumpers out for a drive."

Ah, an opening. It was difficult bringing issues to the attention of others without stepping over the bounds of patient/doctor confidentiality. Kate liked going for casual mentions, as though she had observed from a distance rather than discussed one on one. It wasn't just John's sessions she had to keep in mind, but the team's as well, especially Rodney who would catch on quick to anything that had been brought up during his session.

"More adjusting," she said. "I don't think I need to tell you that he's having a difficult time with it. You're probably right that he needs more to do."

"And movies and proofreading aren't enough?" Rodney groused. "Like Ronon said, there's only so much the man can do. He'll have plenty to occupy his time once Carson gives the okay for Ronon and Teyla to slam his ass into the gym floor. Until then, it's make do with what you've got." His fork headed toward his mouth only to pause half-way when he finally took in two pairs of eyes glaring his way. "What! My gosh, you people need to relax. I mean what else can we do for him? He has yet to feel particularly social enough to put up with public places, if you haven't noticed, and he seems to have developed a phobia for wide-open spaces that he sucks at trying to hide. The man has been grossly limited in the number of recreational activities he can participate in."

"So," Ronon said, "we think up more." And he popped another fry into his mouth.

Kate filled her mouth with enough left-over_Hamburger Helper Cheese Burger Macaroni _to hide a smug smirk. She wasn't trying to be manipulative per se, but she didn't know what else to call subtly steering a conversation to where she wanted it to go without having to say what she didn't want to say.

John needed more distractions, activities to occupy his mind, wear him out to the level of exhaustion that didn't allow for dreams. His body wasn't healing like it should because his mind was in turmoil. It was like... like he still wasn't sure about where he was and what had happened – definitely how he should react to it, handle and process it. And just because he had yet to bring up being a potential threat didn't mean the fear was gone, more like shoved down to a lesser degree since there had yet to be any proof. There were other fears as well that he had yet to talk about, possibly didn't even realize were there.

Whatever had been done to him had the affect of tying a blindfold over his eyes, spinning him around, and then letting him go to stagger off on his own. Maybe it wasn't intentional, maybe intentional but incomplete. That's why preoccupying Sheppard was so important. He needed something else to concentrate on.

"Well," Kate said, "whatever you come up with, try to keep it simple, and don't force him into anything. He'll only pull away."

"Gee, you think?" Rodney muttered. "We've already compiled a nice little list of dos and don'ts. And let me tell you, it's a pretty long list of "don'ts" so I doubt anything we come up will last longer than two minutes as an idea alone." His watch beeped and he glanced at it. "If you don't mind, my computer is finished calculating. I need to look it over so I can inform said computer that it is a stupid, useless machine that would have my ass arrested by the IRS if I let it do my taxes."

With that said, he got up and left to deposit his tray in the bin.

"I should grab food for Sheppard before it's gone," Ronon said, and followed after, leaving just Teyla and Kate.

Which was just as well. "Have you been to visit your people yet, Teyla?" Kate asked.

Teyla became quite interested in the remainder of her meal that she poked and stirred. "No, not yet. I have been spending so much time with Colonel Sheppard that I believe it has slipped my mind." She flashed an abashed smile for effect.

Kate turned her head looking directly at the Athosian. "You will have to speak with them at some point. They're your people, you're their leader."

Teyla stabbed more and stirred less. "I have spoken to them. I am not neglecting my duties to them, Dr. Heightmeyer. My preoccupation with helping Colonel Sheppard was not an excuse. I may have not been to the mainland for some time but I am not cut off. I have spoken to Halling and others when they are brought to the city to use the ring. That is how many of our counsels are conducted."

Kate ducked her head to try and catch the other woman's eye. "Have you told them about Colonel Sheppard?"

Teyla's hand stilled. "I have not."

"Will you?"

"I will have to, eventually." She lifted her head to stare off toward the horizon beyond the balcony railing. "I am not sure how, though. I am still concerned over how they might react."

Kate simply nodded. Superstitions and lack of understanding could be powerful and dangerous, depending on the level of belief or naivety, as well as interpretation of beliefs. The majority of religions were generally good, focused on love and faith and values. It wasn't a religion that was fanatical, it was the follower, and it didn't take a whole lot to twist a particular belief into something personally useful, or completely misconstrued.

"They're good people, Teyla." Kate said after a time. "And Colonel Sheppard has done much for them. I would say give them a chance; maybe start by speaking with those you trust the most. It's up to you to talk to them, but don't hold it off too long. They'll find out eventually, which will only make matters worse when they ask you why you didn't tell them sooner." She hated having to remind Teyla of that burden, yet neither could she allow the woman to hold to procrastination.

Teyla nodded solemnly. "I know. I may... talk with Halling the next time I see him."

"Good." Kate said. "Now, shifting back to Colonel Sheppard. How has he seemed to you?"

Teyla was silent for a moment as she thought. "Sometimes he seems much like himself. Other times... he seems... awkward, I suppose. Uncomfortable. I do not think he likes being alone."

"I don't think he does either. Whatever activities you plan for him," she smiled, "it might be a good idea to involve food. Not that he hasn't been eating, he has, but Carson would like it if he ate more."

Teyla tilted her head thoughtfully. "There has been much talk concerning some sort of a celebration to take place on the west pier. Not in celebration of anything in particular, and I am not sure it will even happen as approval has not yet been given. But should it happen, would that be something suitable for Colonel Sheppard to take part in?"

Kate pursed her lips uncertainly. It would involve crowds, conversation, being out in the open. But if Sheppard caught wind of a party going on, he would probably want to go just to see if he could handle it, or hope he could. For being such an easy going man, Sheppard could also be very impatient. "I'd let him be the one to decide. Just be careful if he does decide to go. Or, better yet, find something else he could do. I'm not sure he's ready for that, yet."

Teyla gnawed her bottom lip in a very un-Teyla like manner. "I would... have to agree."

-------------------------------

"You need to get out more, plain and simple," Rodney said. He was using his elbow to shove aside bottles of water and a Kleenex box on Sheppard's desk to make room for the tray.

John had slept all through lunch. By the time he finally forced himself to get up, the food someone had brought had gone cold and congealed. It was obnoxiously ironic that he couldn't even sleep a straight three hours before waking up sweat-drenched from a nightmare during the night. Morning, however, he slept like the heavily sedated. Nothing daily, just insomnia catching up to him.

It had to involve the difference in lighting, the deeper darkness of night versus the softer shadows and twilight of his room in the daytime. There'd been too much to remain on guard about in the dark. But he refused opting for a night-light or crawling back to the jumpers. Kate said he needed more time, so he was going to give himself more time. She also said he needed to cave to a few of his new quirks for the sake of physical health, and he would: daytime naps, not the jumpers.

But, it was starting to feel like the naps were getting longer while his nighttime sleep was getting shorter. What the hell was up with that?

John rubbed his forehead one-handed. "You talking road trip? Yeah, Carson and Elizabeth will be totally stoked about that."

Rodney moved to the bed, took John by the arm, and tugged him to the desk giving him a gentle shove into the chair. "Yes, a road trip through the gate to some uncharted world where we'll most definitely crash. You'll get hurt, and the moment we're rescued Carson will skin me alive and hang my skin on the wall. Now eat."

Tanned skins, dry as parchment and human in shape, skittered through John's brain like cockroaches. A brief glance at the fleshy mound of cheese-burger macaroni and his gut knotted up tight. "I, um..." he swallowed hard, jerking his head since that always did the trick in tossing out the thoughts he didn't want to have anything to do with. "I will." Then he swiveled around to face McKay. "What did you have in mind, then?"

McKay, hands in the pockets of his pants, shrugged. "Oh, I don't know. Some kind of picnic, maybe. And don't think we haven't noticed the way you go ramrod-straight whenever you step outside. We could have it in the doorway or something. Look, you just need to get outside. Carson's brethren of the healing arts swear to the health benefits of a little sunshine (yet seem much more vocal about the greater _harm_ of sunshine)... you need fresh air. And, no, opening a window doesn't count. If we can work you up to standing outside longer than thirty minutes, then we can start to consider trips to the mainland in your future. From pier to mainland to gate – that's how it needs to be."

Rodney had a point, but so did a particularly more enlightened someone else. "Kate says I need to go slow."

"And you will be going slow. It's balconies and piers, for crying out loud. You can't get more small-time than that." Rodney pulled his hand from his pocket to snap his fingers, face lighting up in that familiar glow of epiphany. "There's a party, I think. Or at least I heard. It's mostly just talk right now but... that might be something to look into if it happens."

John's mind shot back to an attempted lunch in the mess-hall and another attempt at taking a meal outside. He twisted his mouth in a mild grimace. "Not really."

Rodney sagged. "Oh come on. I'm not saying you should attend it. Watch from the sidelines, from a door, at a distance; just as kind of a start. See a party, see fun, build up the desire to participate in future fun... maybe you'll get so distracted by what's going you'll step outside or into a crowd or where ever this thing is supposed to take place and not even realize it. Look, Sheppard, sometimes to make any kind of progress you need to be willing to test the waters by wading in without stopping. Maybe even jump in all at once. If you don't like it, you back out, simple as that. Besides, it hasn't even been decided if this party is going to happen. It's just something to consider. If it doesn't happen, just go for the mess-hall again. Nothing is going to change if you keep hiding up in here."

John lowered his gaze to the floor, then moved it to his desk, dresser, everywhere and anywhere, as though confirmation or denial of what Rodney had just said was somewhere in this room.

Change, any kind of change – not really change but everything resolving back to the way it was – it was like food when he was starving, and he knew painfully well what starving felt like. McKay was right; he needed to keep trying for change. _Try_ being the operative word. Kate was right, too. He couldn't push it. He'd tried the pushing thing and doubted he would ever be able to look at meatloaf again.

But trying wasn't pushing, it was testing the waters like Rodney said, letting himself get used to the temperature before taking the plunge. Yet he would definitely,_definitely_, hold off on any kind of plunging.

John shrugged. "Maybe."

Rodney pointed at him. "I'm going to be holding you to that maybe. Now eat before it gets cold." He turned and strode to the bed, dropping on the edge and grabbing his laptop to start typing.

John looked back at his food and gulped. His impression of the food hadn't changed, but he wasn't going to let himself give in to asking for something else. He turned his back on Rodney to hunch over his food, face hidden. He closed his eyes, tight, and poked blindly at the tray until his fork encountered something soft.

He didn't give himself time to even taste what he put in his mouth. He just shoveled it in, swallowing hard then tossing back long pulls of milk to help keep it down. He didn't stop until his fork encountered nothing on the next prod. Opening his eyes, he hunched deeper pressing his hand against his churning gut. He felt shaky, was pretty sure his face had taken on a nice green hue, but at least he'd eaten everything on his plate.

He'd call that progress.

TBC...

A/N: Oh, McKay. Sure hope you know what you're doing.

Also, due to minor complications with one of the chapters, I'm afraid it may be back to one posting a week, hopefully just for a short while.


	22. Drowning

A/N: New Chapter for the New year. Happy New Years everyone! And a special thanks to all who read and reviewed.

Ch. 21

Drowning

"Rodney, I do not think this is wise," Teyla said in an undertone John knew was meant to keep him from overhearing.

"I made the suggestion," Rodney said in the same decibel level. "I'm not forcing him to go. Besides, I doubt he'd take 'no, Sheppard, you can't go to the party because I said so' as an answer. Granted that he's not a sixteen year old, but you know he'd rebel just as bad. Do the whole sneaking out of his room bit, probably tie the sheets together or something..."

John smirked shoving his hands into his jean's pockets. Rodney and Teyla were ahead of him with Ronon beside him. He wasn't surprised by McKay's overconfidence in distance and voice-level, but he was a little taken back that Teyla suspected herself safely unheard.

"Is this insight into your teenage years, McKay?" Sheppard asked. "I was more the stay-out-past-curfew type."

Rodney flashed a startled expression over his shoulder that he quickly dropped for condescending. "Well we can't all be perfectionist rebels without a cause. I was talking in terms of the here and now, Colonel. Confining you to your room would take an act of four star-ranked proportions and even then it would still be iffy. Anyone else and you would step out of the room before the words 'you're not allowed' resonated into your quarters. And you would probably do it out of spite rather than any real desire to go."

John kept his grin. "Probably. I'll admit to having my control issues, Rodney, but let's not forget - you were the one who talked me into going. The whole 'wading into the water a little at a time' speech, if you recall."

"Oh, I recall. However, like I told Teyla, it was just a suggestion." He cleared his throat when John increased his steps in order to have his glower within sight. "Albeit a very convincing suggestion."

John smiled and backed off. Rodney was not a man who denied responsibility. He was, however, a man prone to having his views slightly tainted by infallibility and heavy self-defense. It was that whole 'seeing the forest through the trees' deal. Unless gently prodded – or not so gently – to see that forest then he would go on happily staring at the trees. Not really a big deal except for the Doranda incident. Other than that, it was mostly just an annoying personality quirk.

"With a good point," John said. "I'm the military commander of this city." Or at least he hoped he still was. "I need start acting like it at some point in time. Social interaction'll be good for me."

Teyla turned her head to give him an ambivalent look. "Are you sure, John?"

Sheppard shrugged. "No real saying until we find out." At the immediate moment, he was feeling indifferent about it all, as though if he were to turn around right now it wouldn't phase him. Neither would continuing on, so he went with continuing on.

Then they reached the door to the pier sliding open to let Teyla and Rodney through, and John slowed. Brine-scented warm wind caressed his face, pressing his dark blue button shirt with the rolled-up sleeves against his body, outlining his ribs and collarbones. The few pounds he had managed to acquire had lifted his status from emaciated to uncomfortably thin, doing nothing to alleviate self-consciousness. Adding to it was the rather weighty discomfort of so many people spread out over a wide-open space. John forced himself to step outside the door and, there, stopped to hover four inches from that door. Ronon paused beside him, clasping his shoulder in a reassuring manner that didn't help. Sheppard's pride was taking a serious beating. He could feel it thrashing like a caged animal, hurling with enough force to bend the bars.

Maybe, just maybe, it might actually break free, smothering discomfort enough for John to actually take those few extra steps to blend into the crowd. Until that happened, he remained tethered to the door that was as assuasive as having someone watching his six.

Sometimes he hated his own brain. Or maybe it was his brain hating him. Crap, was that even possible?

_This is why I need to get out more. Too much thinking. Waaaaay too much thinking. Rodney's wrong, thinking is not healthy._

He distracted himself with the crowds and the charcoal-seared scent of grilling meat invoking memories of Fourth of Julys on the beach. Even the time of day was just right, the sun touching the horizon, not quite twilight but getting there. Everyone was dressed in casual civilian clothes – T-shirts, jeans, shorts, spaghetti-strapped tops (the women of course) and sleeveless shirts. It would have been next to impossible to tell military from science, except for the haircuts. Crue-cuts weren't a thing of scientists.

The grill was situated near the end of the pier by tables configured into one long, single table like a buffet covered in paper plates, bowls of side-dishes, and drinks in pitchers. The grill was a personal affect of one of the marines: big, black, and charcoal burning since propane wouldn't be easy to come by. Beyond the pier, the water rippled orange-capped and lazy.

It was nice: full of sound and life but with a quiet, settled feel. All that was missing was sand, palm-trees, and paper lanterns. It was enough to get John's heart to beat a little slower and for a few muscles to unwind. He moved a fraction to the right, just enough to lean his back against the wall. He could see that Rodney had already situated himself into a conversation with Zelenka and three other scientists. The moment Teyla had stepped out, Lt. Cadman materialized to start speaking with her. The lieutenant's right hand was occupied with a plastic cup and her left hand entwining with Carson's right hand.

It took two glances for Carson to realize John was there. He extricated his grip from Cadmen's and headed over with a less than pleased expression on his face. "Colonel," he said, polite. "Doing well this evening?" Beckett had been in the same opinion boat as Teyla when John had brought up the possibility of attending the party if it happened.

John tipped his head. "Doing great." He bit back a wince at the exaggeration. He wouldn't call the way he was feeling great, more like handling things better than anticipated. There was still uncertainty, tension, dread waiting crouched in the shadows hissing at him to watch the damn skies already and order his men to keep their firearms with them at all times. It wasn't easy to ignore, but ignore it he would. Pride, at least, had that much leeway. Act like a lunatic and that's exactly how he would be treated. It made for an excellent incentive.

Carson nodded, eyes assessing, disbelieving. "Glad to here it. The moment you feel any differently, you do something about it. Sit on the ground if you have to, just don't push yourself."

"I know, doc, and I won't."

Beckett pointed at him. "I'll hold you to that. You're a smart man, colonel. You do what you know is right but you tend to get a bit preoccupied with what you're doing. If that wasn't the case I wouldn't worry so much."

John smiled. "You worry because you're good at what you do."

Carson snorted. "Ga, bloody kiss-up," but he grinned back all the same before returning to his place by Laura's side.

Ronon butted him in the arm with his elbow. "They're starting to set out the food. Want anything?"

John opened his mouth ready to say he would eventually get some food himself. One quick look at his still plaster-encased wrist had him snapping it shut. It looked like he would be doing that sitting on the ground thing a little prematurely. "Um, yeah, sure. Hot-dog and egg-salad if they have it."

"Drinks first," Ronon said.

"Nothing with alcohol," although John doubted alcohol was on the table – literally. It took a very mighty occasion for beer, wine, or Athosian ale to be passed around, because too many couldn't hold there liquor and alcohol and mysterious Ancient devices just didn't mix.

Ronon brought John a plastic cup of punch that smelled remarkably like fruit punch Kool-Aid, which it probably was. He then returned to the food table joining the already long and still increasing line. The punch was cool, sweet but not too sweet, and John felt his body ease out of another couple of inches of pulling muscles. He watched the amber-flecked water shimmer and lap and the pier's edge.

"Colonel Sheppard, sir!"

John pulled his eyes from the hypnotic affect of the ocean to see Lt. Barr in a sleeveless blue shirt and cut off cargo pants heading toward him while jerking his thumb over his shoulder. "Sir, you gotta hear this joke Johnson heard. It is friggin' hilarious."

The little group Barr was indicating with his thumb wasn't that far from his spot by the door, just a couple of feet. Too many feet according to dread. But enough eyes had settled on him, watching and waiting with wide-eyed wonder full of admiration and hope to give pride the foothold that it needed. John washed back unease with a fortifying drink of punch, plastered on a somewhat forced smile, and nodded.

"Love to hear it."

John followed Barr to the group where Sgt. Johnson regaled him with a joke about a cannibal, an outhouse, and the cannibal crying over dumping girlfriend. Barr was right, it was hilarious; disgusting but hilarious, and another inch gave in John's muscles.

Johnson had a few more jokes to toss in, all of which John had heard, but laughed at anyways. When joking turned to talking, he didn't participate, just listen. The conversation subject was mostly missions, with a lot of bragging Sheppard wouldn't have allowed for had these men and two women been in uniform. For tonight, he allowed it. For tonight, they weren't on another world in another galaxy, they were on some weird beach, maybe situated in California or Florida. Hell, why not Jamaica or Cancun since he was playing pretend. Someplace, anyplace, just so long as it was where life sucking aliens did not exist. Just for tonight.

"... giant cockroaches, I swear," Johnson said. "Big as lobsters. Tasted like 'em too. They're pretty when they're cooked up but, man, see 'em wallowing in the mud," he shuddered. "Me and Vasquez were the only ones that didn't puke. Made me miss real lobster."

"Rule number one when eating native dishes," John finally said. "Close your eyes and pretend you're at Appleby's" Rule number two: never, ever, ask what it is you're eating. The natives have a tendency to show off."

Everyone snickered.

"Hey, uh, sir?" Lt. Nickleson, - short, wiry, sandy-haired and baby-faced - shifted like a gawky teenager from foot to foot, trying to avoid eye-contact with his CO. "Um... is it cool... I mean. Is it all right... can I ask? We uh, never did hear about how you came back? I know people said Dr. Beckett found you, but how'd he find you?"

"I think what Nickleson is trying say," said Barr, "if it's all right, how'd you escape? Or whatever."

John's muscles recoiled like a rattler readying to strike. The sudden knotting tension was so tight it was already starting to hurt. John rested his hand on his hip pushing for relaxed and casual. "Well, um," he cleared his closing throat. "It's... kind of complicated. Actually, I don't really remember much. Lots of alarms, chaos. It's not really clear."

The others nodded sagely, understanding where there could be no understanding.

"However it happened," Barr said, "we're glad to have you back, sir." He raised his cup and the others mimed the action in a silent salute to him. John felt his face flush with heat so dropped his head to hide it.

It had little to do with humble gratitude.

Could he even call what had happened an escape? No, hell no. It had been blind, stupid, one in a million chance sliver of luck. A one time deal never to happen again. A miracle of mountain-moving proportions.

He hadn't done a thing. Not a damn thing. He hadn't even held out for survival, it had been given to him against his will. The only thing he had accomplished was talk back and get two people killed.

One of them because he was a selfish bastard. Others would say Vee'rana had deserved it but... he hadn't meant for that to happen. He hadn't _wanted_ that to happen. He had just wanted her to stop, to leave him alone for five minutes so he could sleep. That was all. He had just wanted to sleep.

"Colonel Sheppard?"

John wasn't sure who called his name but it was enough to snap his attention back to the young eyes staring at him – wide, worried eyes brimming with hearty admiration. His stomach shriveled up so tight that had anything been in it he would have puked it up right there and then. Thankfully, it was empty. He plastered on a smile that hurt.

"I need to see a man about some dinner," John said, taking a step back. "I'll talk to you guys later, okay?"

The group nodded. Even when John turned he could feel their stares pressing against his back. Not just their's, any stare pointed his way, all with the same admiration, the same awe, like they'd never seen the like of him and thought him the coolest thing since X-box.

Sheppard moved to the nearest wall, pressing his shoulder up against it, closing his eyes and breathing deep with a twitch of his head.

_Take it easy, Sheppard, you're freaking out over nothing. Just freakin' relax you moron. What the hell is your problem?_

_Your problem? You know what your problem is. You're a fraud. You're a cowered and a fake and these people have no idea. You're pretending; pretending to be what you're not, pretending everything's peachy, fine, fantastic and letting everyone believe it. But you know they'll figure it out. You know it. Then what will they think, huh? What will they think of their fearless, immortal leader? What will their eyes show when they see through the smiles and the ease? Will they still follow you, trust you? Can they? Should they? Face it, pal, you've screwed up. You don't deserve them, any of them. You're a danger to them. That's what your problem is, and I'd say it's a pretty big one._

John shook his head. _No, no, no what happened, everything that happened... I didn't mean it. It was the wraith queen, manipulation._

His imaginary friend snorted. _Yeah, just keep telling yourself that, Sheppard. Maybe you'll start to believe it. You suck at denial. Always have, always will. Lying, too. That's why they'll know. I say run, because 'that' you're good at. Have them open a gate to earth, or hitch a ride on the Daedalus when it gets here. Oh, but wait, you might be compromised. I don't think your bosses will be too happy about that. They might think it a trick, lock you up. Personally, I don't think it a bad idea – for safety's sake, of course._

_Run, Sheppard. Run as fast as you can. Not that it'll do any good._

John's eyes snapped open. He gasped in air, not even realizing he'd stopped breathing.

_Where the hell did that come from? _His imaginary friend didn't answer. But he could feel it smirking like an uncomfortable tickle at the back of his head.

John shuddered, the shudder turning into a shiver. He was cold, head to foot, like a thin layer of ice was slicked over his skin keeping out the warm sea-breezes. He fought against folding his arms over his chest in front of so many people. Too many people, too many eyes glancing or looking his way. Too loud, too crowded, to open, too small... too much.

It felt like drowning.

John turned keeping to the wall as he followed it back to the door, his eyes on the ground and his hands shoved into his pockets to keep them from doing anything else. As soon as he slipped through the door, beyond sight and out of the open, he slammed his back into the wall wrapping his arms tight around himself, shaking until his teeth chattered.

_Why is this happening to me now? Why? What did I do?_

_You know what you did. You played pretend, Sheppard. Naughty Sheppard. Trying to act like everything is fine when he knows it isn't. Trying to go back to being what he wasn't, what he never had been. Stupid, fake Sheppard._

John hunched his shoulders against the cold growing colder until it hurt, shaking his head, lip curling in a snarl. "No, no, no, shut up, just shut the hell up!"

_No, not this time. You know it's true. You're selfish. You're a fraud._

John squeezed his eyes, doubling over. "Shut up, shut up, shut up...!" he demanded and begged. Why here, why now? He'd waded in, not plunged.

_Denial._

Denial. No, it couldn't be. What happened on the hive ship had been an accident. He'd been hurting, hungry, confused... it wasn't who he was. He hadn't meant for it to happen. It wasn't who he was!

_That's the denial, Sheppard. It is who you are, you just won't admit it._

John seethed shooting strings of saliva from his gritted teeth. "No. No it's not."

_Yes, it is._

"No, it's not so _just shut the hell up!"_

His imaginary friend laughed. John sucked in a sharp breath when his heart stumbled in its beat. He needed to get warm. He needed to stop thinking. He needed to get away before anyone saw him and he had to explain himself.

_Denial._

John swallowed and choked on saliva. Pushing away from the wall, he stumbled down the corridor. He hadn't gone far or long when his legs tried to give out. He needed to rest, just for a moment, then he would find a way to get warm.

Most of the corridors in this section were unused, therefore dark to keep power flowing to the more important sectors of the city. John turned down the nearest one, leaning against the wall for support, deep into the darkness where no one would be able to spot him. He went until his legs finally gave out for good and he let himself slide down the wall to huddle on the floor.

Just a few minutes, that's all he needed. Not too much to ask for, right?

_Probably._

----------------------------------

"Common courtesy, that's all I'm saying," Rodney said to himself. "He had his radio, he could have informed one of us that he was heading back to his room. He could have saved us all the worry and me the trip..." it was a weak argument, one of his weakest because not only did he not believe it for a second, it was also making him feel a little nauseas. He had been convincing in his argument for Sheppard to attend this shin-dig. So if something had happened, Rodney was in part to blame for it.

Not that anything had happened. Sheppard could have just been tired, too tired to remember to tell anyone he was leaving. The man wasn't up to par, not even up to sub-par. Trying to stay upright against all the ocean breezes might have worn him out.

"Still would have been nice if he'd called." McKay grimaced. Crap, he sounded like a pouty sixteen year-old girl even to himself. This is why he didn't like it when others made him worry. Concern was complicated. Concern was painful. And, sometimes, concern seemed endless.

But it was his own fault. He'd talked Sheppard into coming when he should have talked him out of coming. And isn't this exactly what Heightmeyer had warned him about? Doing what _he alone_ thought was best for Sheppard rather than actually taking the time to consider what _would_ be best for him?

_But he needed to at least try and get out and about._

The logic in that was sound to a generalizing degree. All feeling, thinking human beings needed social interaction... as much as he hated it. That quack of a psychology teacher (because psychology had been a required course) had said as much.

What Rodney had not taken into consideration was the when – when would Sheppard be ready for social interaction? He really, really should have considered that. Him of all people. One on one was doable, small groups manageable, but crowds were like walking on thin ice. So many people, so much talk, bodies pressing in allowing little room for coherent thought and movement. Give him a symposium to lecture, but toss him into one of those meet and greet mingles and his IQ tended to drop several points. Open mouth, insert foot was the result.

For Sheppard... he'd been tortured by the damn wraith. Rodney couldn't begin to fathom what a social setting of this caliber might have done to him. Considering if it had done anything at all. It was more plausible that Sheppard was just tired.

"_Shut up."_

Rodney stopped. Had he heard that? He was pretty sure he'd heard that. He glanced back down the hall, then up the hall. "Sheppard?"

No reply, at least not a verbal one. He listened into the thick, breathing silence. Breathing. Was that breathing he heard? "Sheppard? You there?"

Still nothing. But there was something like breathing, an unsteady rasping noise coming from his right. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the LSD he'd brought because he didn't trust Zelenka not to jump out at him from one of the darkened hallways for kicks. The man was sadistically cheery that way. In fact, that breathing he was hearing might just be him.

"Zelenka, if that's you, might I remind you that the energy shield on the kid planet could use some maintenance. Zelenka?" There was a white dot to Rodney's right and a little further down the hall. He made his way toward it, pulling out his tiny pocket flashlight to shine into the corridor. He passed the beam over the walls and across the floor.

He stopped when the beam landed on a mass huddled on the floor in baggy blue-jeans and a dark blue shirt. Rodney sucked in a breath. "Damn it, Sheppard," he hissed, hurrying toward the man. He crouched next to John whose face was hidden in his arms folded on top of his knees. And he was shivering.

Rodney's heart thudded fast. He swallowed, reaching out to place his hand on Sheppard's shoulder. "John?"

Sheppard's head snapped up with a sharp inhale. McKay snatched his hand back. "Whoa, Sheppard, it's me, Rodney."

John blinked heavy eyelids. "McKay?" His voice was thick as though he'd just woken up.

"Yeah, McKay. What the hell are you doing here? I know you like your privacy and all but, come on, the floor? And the dark – that's just depressing. If you want to sulk in the dark, fine, but you have a nice soft bed you could be doing it in. Come on." He took John by the biceps and tugged.

"I was tired," John said. "Needed to rest."

"And like I said, you have a nice soft bed you can do that in." He tugged harder. John attempted to comply by bracing himself against the wall to pull himself up, only to drop to the floor, almost onto his side if Rodney hadn't been holding on.

"Whoa, dang, Sheppard! A little help here? Are you okay?"

John's arm wrapped around himself, his quaking body doubling over it. "Cold."

"Cold?" Rodney crouched back down, moving his grip from John's arm to his very chilled wrist. "Son of a..." Rodney's other hand shot to his radio. "Carson! Carson, I found him but you need to get your ass down here right now! We're in the third corridor on the right. Hurry!" He then started rubbing both of Sheppard's arms briskly. "It's all right, Carson's coming, it'll be all right." Most of that placation was for him; he just hoped it was providing Sheppard at least a modicum of comfort. Even John had to be aware that this kind of severe decrease in body temperature within a warm environment equaled something very, _very_ bad.

John nodded. "Yeah, okay." He might have been cold and exhausted, but at least he was coherent. And that was a good thing.

It didn't take all that long for Carson to arrive, although it certainly felt that way. Ronon and Teyla trailed after, hanging back when Carson knelt next to John taking his pulse at both the wrist and neck. The Scott's face visibly paled even in the poor light of Rodney's flashlight.

"Bloody hell, lad, you're like ice! Rodney, help me get him up. We need to get him warm."

Rodney took one side, Carson the other, and together they hauled Sheppard back to his unsteady feet. Ronon came in taking Carson's place so the physician could continue monitoring John.

"What's wrong with him?" Rodney asked.

"Low blood pressure I say. His pulse felt thready. I almost couldn't find it."

They moved fast but careful through the halls to the nearest transporter, then from the transporter down more corridors to the infirmary, practically dragging John most of the way. Once inside, Rodney and Ronon deposited him on a bed where he immediately rolled onto his side to curl up against the cold. Teyla removed his shoes as Carson unbuttoned the top few buttons of Sheppard's shirt to stick monitor pads onto his chest. He next fetched an electric blanket that he draped over John's shivering body.

The rhythm of the monitor was abnormally rapid, practically fluttery. McKay looked from the monitor to Sheppard, then from Sheppard to Carson. "What happened to him? Why is he like this?"

Carson shushed him as he listened to John's chest with the stethoscope, then his breathing. Afterward, he moved on to blinding John with the penlight. Sheppard groaned, recoiling.

"What's wrong with me... doc?" Sheppard croaked. "I thought... it was eighty degrees... out."

Carson pulled Sheppard's arm from the blanket to wrap a rubber band around the biceps. "You tell me, lad?" He inserted the needle at the crook of the elbow.

Sheppard flinched. "Started thinking too much."

Carson pulled the needle from his arm, laying a cotton ball over the insertion point. "Anything in particular?"

There was a quality to John's eyes Rodney had never seen before: glassy confusion touched with a hint of fear, verging on panic the longer he thought. Carson placed his gloved hand's on Sheppard's shoulder, inciting a second recoil from the man.

"It's all right, lad. Don't worry about it now. I'm going to give you a mild sedative and I want you to rest. You'll warm up soon enough."

He was warming up right now according to the way the shivers were subsiding. An I.V. was inserted into his hand to play it safe since, according to Carson, dehydration was possible in his current state. The sedative was added through the I.V. port. Sheppard was out seconds after it was injected.

"What state would that be?" Rodney asked the moment Sheppard's eyes closed and stayed closed.

Carson checked the monitor a final time, then herded the team a little ways from the bed. He rubbed at his jaw thoughtfully for a moment before planting both hands on his hips. "I think," he began, "and this is just a theory, mind, though a likely one – I think Colonel Sheppard had a panic attack."

Silence settled heavy over the infirmary so that not even the distant beep of the monitor could break it.

Rodney gaped. "And it's all my fault."

Carson sighed. "No, Rodney, it's not." He held up his hand just as Rodney was bout to protest. "And don't you start into how it was your fault. Look, we don't know enough about what's going on in Sheppard's head to know what will do him good and what will do him harm. You're intentions were sound and he was doing fine when I talked to him. Something obviously triggered it and I doubt we'll ever know what. At least not right away. I'll have Kate come in and talk to him. In the meantime, a bit of rest should do him good."

Rodney's eyes drifted over to where Sheppard was still curled but thankfully no longer shaking. "This is bad." He looked back at Carson. "Isn't it?"

"It's complicated," Carson stated. "And right now it's a matter of trial and error. But the last thing John needs is for us giving up hope on him just because of a few setbacks. Now why don't you lot head back to the party. Sheppard will be fine. I'll be right here with him making sure of it myself."

Rodney felt a slight tug on his arm. "Come, Rodney," Teyla said. "Dr. Beckett is right. We have done all we needed to for now."

McKay followed, too numb to protest. This was bad, Carson just wouldn't admit it. And it was his fault. Sheppard was broken, and he was the one who had broken him.

TBC...

A/N: I would just like to say concerning constructive criticism - like most authors, I'm always trying to better my work, so constructive criticism is always appreciated. However, there's a right way and a wrong way to go about it. Comments made for the sake of berating me for spelling errors is not appreciated. I'm usually not picky about feedback, but comments that nitpick spelling errors, without offering positive feedback (because I'm assuming that since you're commenting, you're reading, and you're reading because you enjoy the story) are rather difficult to precive as helpful. In fact, there are some writers I know of who have recieved feedback that is downright rude. Such feedback is not only unappreciated, it's unhelpful. I know how to spell, I look over my chapters two to three times and have had these chapters beta'd. But spelling mistakes still manage to slip by unnoticed. Even in published works, not all spelling errors are caught (there, they're, their are the hardest to catch, for example.)

I'm not saying that I only want praise. Constructive criticism is welcome, but good criticism points out what works along with what doesn't work, or needs to be fixed. Negative-only feedback comes across as, well, negative, even if your intentions were good.


	23. Paying the Piper

A/N: As always, thanks be to Drufan for the beta.

Ch. 22

Paying the Piper

"They'd wanted to know how I'd escaped," John said.

Kate tapped her pen too slowly and lightly against her notebook to make any sound. "Did that anger you?"

John fisted the edges of the blankets tighter, shaking his head. "No, it didn't make me mad. It, um... it..."

"Frightened you," Kate smoothly supplied, a statement of fact rather than a guess.

John twisted his features into an abashed wince. "I was going to say threw me off guard."

Kate's pen stilled. "But it did more than that. It frightened you, made you recall something."

Sheppard couldn't really reply to that. He didn't want to, so supplied her with a muted nod. Being in the infirmary where anyone could hear, he couldn't voice that very recollection Kate was going to ask him about in the next five seconds. Five, four, three, two...

"What did you remember?"

"Does it matter?"

"Eventually. We'll find out eventually, anyways." She leaned forward, and the serene visage faded to corpse pale, the hair to white, the plain shirt to a black dress. Morticia pulled her wide mouth into a serrated toothy smile. "Did you kill them, little one? Did you let them die?"

John lurched back into open air and the weightless horror of falling.

Then snapped his eyes open when a solid surface knocked the breath from his lungs. His eyes focused on the slick floor reflecting arctic blue light. Ki'vana would be here soon to take him to his chores or a visit with the queen, he couldn't remember. He lifted his head to peer through the webbing only to have something long, dark, and blocky obscuring the view.

A bed, which hadn't been in the cell. His bed, in his room that Beckett had released him to once he was sure his vitals were stable enough.

John dropped his head back to the floor releasing a breath that rushed warm from his chest, giving himself a moment to revel in the body-draining relief of the here and now. Once reality was firmly resettled, he crawled back into the bed and curled beneath the covers. Beckett had said he was fine, Kate had said he would be all right, but he couldn't stop shivering.

----------------------------------------

Elizabeth felt Caldwell's tension rather than saw it. Their view from the balcony extended the Daedalus' landing from sky to pier, the ship fading into view as it descended. It eased itself onto the dock in a ripple of heat and a cloud of dispersing vapors. She chanced a flicker of a glance in Caldwell's direction, to his stony expression and distant gaze that was betraying him.

The problem with getting what you wanted after so long was coming to realize that it might not have been what you had wanted after all. "Don't know what you've got until it's gone" summed it up nicely. Caldwell had been gung-ho about taking command of Atlantis' military from the start. Then, once Steven had himself firmly eased into the role, he'd become a much quieter presence than Elizabeth had anticipated. Actually, she hadn't anticipated it at all. Rather than a hovering entity perpetually and politely offering advice down to how to save a file on her laptop, Caldwell barely graced her with his presence. He showed up for meetings, when needed, and that was it.

The reason why was simple. Elizabeth was staring at the reason right now. She almost said, out loud, that Caldwell might soon have the Daedalus back depending on Sheppard. Except there were no certainties, so it would have just come out sounding either like patronizing or some kind of blackmail. Though Caldwell had yet to speak with Sheppard (whether because of Beckett's orders or some wholly different reason Elizabeth couldn't begin to fathom, she didn't know), a portion of the pilot's fate still rested in his hands. The SGC was ordering insight into the Lt. Colonel's health status from all the senior staff.

Elizabeth was just glad they still had time. Sheppard was less than ready for a final evaluation.

_Panic attack. He'd had a damn panic attack and no one even knew it until after the fact. _

She wasn't laying blame, simply being prejudice toward panic attacks as a whole. Her grandmother on her father's side had suffered panic attacks and when they happened, everyone knew it. Then again, probably because everyone knew what to look for.

The Daedalus' ramp was lowered, Elizabeth could tell by the shifting shadows, the ramp itself out of sight. She turned without a word to head to her office with Caldwell following. Once there, she settled into her chair. Steven eased into the right of the two chairs in front of her desk. She had gotten used to his command, but not necessarily him. It was so damn depressing, his formality; like he didn't trust her, could never relax around her even when he was at ease. He was chain of command and proper procedure, she knew and understood that. She just couldn't grow accustomed to it.

Neither did she blame him for it.

Elizabeth folded her hands on top of her desk. "I'm requiring all the new science personnel to be present when you debrief the new marines. I heard Major Lorne put together an excellent instructional video." More like a hodge-podge of footage from medical exams to cullings caught on tape. There was a time when Elizabeth wouldn't have subjected the scientists to having the hell scared out of them. However, they needed the hell scared out of them.

Steven smiled. "I've seen the video. And trust me when I say it's going to be quite educational. I believe between that and the field training exercises, we'll be able to avoid the complacency that was problematic with the last batch."

The biggest misconception when it came to gate travel was "if you've seen ten freaky planets and fought fifty Jaffa, you've pretty much done it all." Out of the new personnel, it wasn't the greenest of the green they had to worry about. It was the ones with gating experience, the ones who would look at a wraith and treat it like a Jaffa, possibly turning their backs on it as soon as it was down. It was always the little nuances that cost lives, and always the experienced ones who ignored the small stuff.

They went over the inventory of what they were supposed to receive according to requisition forms filled out, and then discussed those wishing to head out with the Daedalus when it departed. Far less than last time, and neither Elizabeth nor Steven needed to say out loud as to why. After Sheppard had been taken, there followed a massive influx of requests to be transferred back to earth. Now that Sheppard was back – back from something he shouldn't have survived – most of the requests were for temporary leave over personal matters only.

It made Elizabeth's insides squirm. She had visited Sheppard when she had time and he was up for it. He had always seemed fine during those visits; quiet, tired, not really up for long conversations, but fine. Except he wasn't fine, yet only those closest to him realized it. Elizabeth heard the talk going around the city and saw the expressions of those circulating the talk.

All wonder, a crap-load of hero worship, and anticipation for Sheppard to resume command. Good intentions aside, it was a lot to place such a burden on one still-healing and weary man's shoulders. It made Elizabeth glad John was where he couldn't hear or see any of it.

The door to her office eventually slid open admitting the tall, broad-shouldered and dark skinned Col. Peterson, followed by a slightly shorter, slender man in dark sweater, blue Air Force jacket, and slacks. He wasn't exactly a remarkable man with dark brown hair peppered a little gray receding far back from his forehead and wire-rim glasses. He held a brief case in one hand, and the other hand he held out for Cadlwell to take in a firm shake.

Peterson took the remaining chair, the other man positioning himself adjacent to it. Elizabeth gave the Colonel a welcoming smile. She liked Peterson, who reminded her a little of O'Neill with his relaxed disposition that could make anyone feel at ease. "Colonel Peterson, welcome back. I'm presuming you had an uneventful trip, though you were a little later than I expected."

Peterson grinned and replied with a mild Georgia accent, "Even intergalactic space-craft need to make a pit-stop now and then. We were still in the Milky Way when asked to make a detour to the nearest world with a 'gate to make a pick-up." He indicated the sergeant with a casual wave of his hand. "Dr. Weir, meet Mr. Laurence. Formerly Colonel Lawrence before he retired for a change of profession. He hopped, skipped and jumped all the way from the SGC to the Daedalus."

Elizabeth looked up and gave Laurence a nod. "Mr. Lawrence."

"Dr. Weir, ma'am," Laurence amiably replied. "I was sent at the request of Stargate Command to evaluate a Lt. Colonel John Sheppard."

Elizabeth's heart plummeted into her stomach. "What?" Her shock apparently registered on her face when Laurence's eyes widened.

"Oh, not to worry, it's just a routine interview, nothing complicated or in depth. The SGC simply wants an outsider evaluation of the Lt. Colonel for the sake of covering all the bases. They initially weren't going to send anyone what with the Daedalus already setting off, but I became available at the last minute."

"You're expertise?" Caldwell asked, thankfully. Elizabeth was having a little trouble getting over her initial bewilderment.

"Interrogations for the most part," Laurence said. "I know it sounds a little harsh, but, simply put, I've been trained to ask the right questions as well as gage reactions to those questions. In Lt. Colonel Sheppard's case, I'm merely here to listen to his side of the story." He turned his attention back to Elizabeth. "According to the reports I received, Colonel Sheppard had been taken prisoner by the wraith only to be released for an unspecified reason, am I correct?"

"Uh..." Elizabeth stammered. "Um, yes. Yes, he was."

"But he was never interrogated?"

"No," Elizabeth said. "No, he wasn't. Isn't that enough?"

"The SGC would like more of an account directly stated by Colonel Sheppard. Just a few routine questions, most of them yes or no answers. Details are to be obtained by your resident psychologist who I need to meet with before speaking with the Colonel. There's no immediate rush and the interview can be scheduled at his convenience. But a statement must be taken from him before the Daedalus' next departure."

Elizabeth remained thunderstruck. For all of Landry's warnings, she'd still ended up giving in to the SGC and IOA being content enough with Kate to gather what they wanted to know. She should have known better, not that it would have made a difference.

Her skin goose-fleshed, shock giving way to irritation. Damn it, she really should have known better. The SGC had enough experience with missions-gone-wrong to be a little sympathetic about the situation. The IOA, on the other hand – the sometimes paranoid voice of reason – knew how to be persistently pushy and wouldn't take the SGC's "we'll handle it" as an answer. And there were still trust issues, between the SGC and Elizabeth _and_ Sheppard.

It took a mental shove that felt almost physical to keep her frustration back enough to think and speak calmly. "Kate Heightmeyer is our psychologist," she said. Laurance probably already knew that, but Elizabeth had needed a neutral reply. "I'll have her come up in a minute. She's already determined that Colonel Sheppard is in no ways a security risk to this expedition. She's also focused just as much on his mental health as gathering information on what had happened to him. If she doesn't approve of this interview, I need to know, have you been given authority to override her on it?"

"If Dr. Heightmeyer feels that the interview may cause Colonel Sheppard any kind of harm, I have been told to hold off," said Laurence. "As I said before, there's no immediate rush. But there is a deadline and if the statement is not taken by that deadline then I'm afraid the interview will have to take place even against Dr. Heightmeyer's concerns. I'm sorry."

Laurence actually seemed quite sincere in his apology. Because he was here on the SGC's behalf, a part of Elizabeth wanted to hate him. But, because he was just doing his job, she couldn't, not really or, at least, not yet.

Mr. Laurence aside, she didn't feel comfortable about it. It felt too soon to her and a little double-dealing. The right questions asked in the right way to produce the right kind of reaction and, the next thing they know, Sheppard is heading out on the Daedalus. But knowing Sheppard, he would agree to the interview out of a sense of duty while simultaneously proving that he had nothing to hide. He could be as obedient as he was stubborn, sometimes at the same time. He would do this, even if Kate and Carson advised against it.

Elizabeth sighed, then tapped her com, since there was no point stalling the inevitable.

-----------------------------------------

"This has got to be a bad idea," Rodney said. He looked over at Kate. "You can't seriously consider this as anything but."

Ronon listened for the answer.

"I spoke with Mr. Laurence and we went over the questions he planned to ask. They generally are harmless but I wouldn't be observing if I didn't have some concerns. Besides, it was Colonel Sheppard's decision."

Ronon stared at the distorted image through the stained-glass window that Rodney had muttered was as close as they were going to get to a two-way mirror, whatever that was. The room where the interview was taking place muted sound to something near-inaudible, yet didn't fully contain it. From the muffled droning and the motions of Laurence as he removed papers from the case, Sheppard was getting prepped, which meant the questions were soon about to follow.

Heightmeyer didn't say it since she didn't have to, but caution was also the reason she had invited the team to watch. She called it moral support. Ronon suspected it more like back-up in case they had to get Sheppard out fast. Since she hadn't gone into any details on what she suspected might happen (if anything did happen to set Sheppard off) that meant she had no firm expectations.

And she was supposed to know, which was unsettling. Ronon had yet to form any kind of an opinion toward head healing. He had formed an opinion of Heightmeyer. She was good at figuring people out down to what wasn't outwardly apparent. What she didn't know she anticipated for, like with now. Sheppard would call it covering all the bases. Ronon preferred to call it strategy.

"Of course it was his decision," Rodney muttered sulkily. The scientist was acting strangely. That he was being extra protective was obvious – they all were – he was just being more silent about it. Ronon suspected McKay was still blaming himself for Sheppard's reaction during the party. If Rodney said anything at all to John, it was always to ask if he needed anything.

Sheppard himself was acting more subdued, speaking even less than Rodney.

It was all so – what was that Earth word?_Surreal_, and Ronon didn't like it. It was as though instead of getting better, things were growing gradually worse, and not even Sheppard seemed to know why. Whatever the wraith had done to him, they had done it well.

Laurence's muffled voice was joined by another voice that was distinctly Sheppard's. The interview was beginning. Ronon still thought of it as an interrogation, and wasn't happy about it.

-------------------------------------

Formerly-known-as Colonel Laurence was a generic brand of interrogator, like the difference between a professional psychologist with a wall full of degrees and a high school guidance counselor. Sheppard half expected him to launch into questions about where Sheppard saw himself in five years.

It wasn't incentive enough for John to relax. Laurence had been sent to ask questions, possibly pre-thought up and written-out questions by those looking for something specific. Or maybe not. John couldn't say yet until the questioning began.

John sat straight-back with hands folded on top of the table, ignoring his belt biting into his hip-bones. Not the posture he preferred, but he was attempting an air of high-ranking dignity, here. He was dressed mission ready minus his tac-vest. Just BDUs, boots, long-sleeved shirt and his jacket adding a little padding to his body. His muscles were pulling a little tight, but his heart was beating steady. Whether he was really ready for this or not, he couldn't say. He didn't really care, either, just wanting to get it over with.

He could do this. They were just stupid questions.

Laurence positioned the files and papers in a neat row before clicking his pen and shifting in preparation to write. "All right then, Lt. Colonel Sheppard, I just need to ask you a few questions concerning your capture and release by the wraith. Just so you know, Dr. Heightmeyer will be monitoring the questioning via a private signal over the com, but anything said will remain in the strictest of confidence between us. Is that all right with you?"

Kate had already explained what she would be doing. John nodded. "That's fine."

"Okay, then. After your capture, did the wraith queen explicitly state her intentions for you?"

John nodded. "Yes."

"And what were those intentions?"

John cleared his throat and his steady heart beat skipped a couple of beats. "Misery."

Both of Laurence's thin eyebrows shot upward. "Can you elaborate?"

"Torture. She didn't like me."

Laurence nodded. "It says in the report that... she knew who you were?"

"Yeah."

"Was this queen someone you had encountered in the past?"

John shook his head. "No. I... tried to explain it as best I could. The queens have some kind of a connection with each other. It's not really a constant communication, more like they can see what the others see, and they saw me right before certain queens had died."

"So this was a vendetta?"

John smiled. "Couldn't have put it better myself." So far so good. Technical stuff, really.

_Just wait. _

"At any point in time did the queen interrogate you?"

"No," John stated firmly.

"Was she planning to?"

"Yes."

"But was unable to when her ship was attacked?"

John inclined his head. "Yep."

Laurence looked up from the questionnaire form. "Then she just let you go?"

Moisture slicked John's palms like grease. "Yeah... we had to evacuate. She left most of her worshipers and all of her slave labor on a planet with the promise of returning. She never did." He shrugged like it was no big deal, which it wasn't, yet he still couldn't quite bring himself to believe it after all of Morticia's constant reminders about how she owned his ass. "So either she stopped caring or was killed."

"She didn't think to just bring you with her?"

John shrugged again.

Laurence nodded dropping his gaze back to the sheet. "Okay, then. The IOA had some concerns about your release. Both Dr. Beckett and Dr. Heightmeyer have vouched that you were in no way tampered with physically or mentally in a manner that would jeopardize the safety of this expedition, so we'll leave it at that... There is the matter of information having possibly slipped during your imprisonment. Not necessarily through interrogation but some other, perhaps, more subtle method. Did there come a point where you believe you might have said something, or began to say something, that might have been beneficent to the enemy?"

John opened his mouth to say no, only to snap it promptly back shut. He hadn't really thought about that one. Between the hunger, pain, and sleep deprivation, he'd been doing a lot more running off of the mouth. He was sure he could say no safely to letting slip security codes or the continuing existence of Atlantis. But intel gathering was a funny business. Sometimes it wasn't about what was said. Sometimes it was about the reactions that followed.

"Mor... uh... the queen wasn't interested in Earth or Atlantis," John finally said. She'd been interested in him, and only him. Sheppard was thinking out loud. "She never asked anything about Atlantis. She seemed keener on show and tell than asking questions."

"Can you elaborate?"

John had to swallow twice before saliva finally moistened his suddenly parched throat. "It's hard to explain. I guess... you could say... she was showing off a lot. A power-trip thing. She didn't care about what I had to say, only what she was doing to... me." Testing him, studying him, breaking him down one layer at a time, shoving her superiority and dominance over him down his throat until he choked on it. And she'd been damn good about it, because he hadn't been able to do a single thing right.

John clenched his hands tighter. She'd turned him into a murderer: a selfish, two-faced murderer.

"I think she was building up to..." Sheppard cleared his throat again, and then coughed when that didn't work. "…an interrogation. I guess she just waited too long." His heart pounded, making it hard to breathe, creating a little mild vertigo that twisted his stomach. His gut was starting to ache beyond simple nausea.

Laurence bobbed his head, jotting the information down. "Was an escape attempt made?"

"Yeah," John said. " Twice." Then added with a weak smile, "They didn't work out so good." And someone had died because of it. Well, more than because of it. The ache in John's gut grew into something sharp and constant.

The former Colonel wrote the reply down. "Well, that's all the SGC wanted to know. I should warn you that either Stargate Command or the IOA may require me to ask future questions not yet thought of. My being here was a last minute decision so they didn't have time to formulate all the questions they wanted. However, they may just leave it up to Dr. Heightmeyer to learn anything else they might want to know. In the mean time, I thank you for your time, sir, and apologize for the short notice."

"That's okay, sir," John croaked. They stood, Laurence shaking John's hand as though they'd just completed a job interview. The former Colonel stayed behind to gather his papers as John left. Not a bad guy, Laurence. John had faced a hell of a lot worse.

So why did he feel like he'd just survived a three-hour grilling by a commanding officer?

Kate met him outside the door with his team behind her. She placed her hand on his shoulder that he flinched at and flashed him a warm smile. "You did good, John."

John smiled weakly back with a shaky nod. "Thanks. Just glad it's over." The stomachache spiked with temporary pain that brought his hand to his gut on reflex. "Um, listen, I'm feeling a little beat so I'm just going to go lay down for a while. That cool?"

Rodney's mouth twisted ruefully. "It's not like you have to ask for permission to take a nap." He narrowed his eyes. "Are you all right? You're looking a little peeked?"

"I said I was beat," John replied more defensively than intended. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "I was expecting something a little different and it had me on edge. I'll be fine; I just need to unwind for a moment." And a moment alone away from voices and questions. He hurried off before anyone had a chance to say anything else.

The minute he was in the quiet of his room, he shed his uniform to slip into something looser and elastic, then knocked back a swallow of Mylanta he kept in his bathroom, and crawled into bed.

The antacid refused to work. The ache continued its sharp, twisting existence in the pit of his stomach. John curled into himself hugging his arms against his gut which barely helped except to make it slightly more tolerable. He was going to have to see Beckett, but he wanted a few minutes to close his eyes, first. He felt like he'd just dodged the biggest-ass bullet ever to be dodged. Why? They'd been stupid technical questions. He'd had job interviews at fast-food joints that had asked tougher questions.

_That was just the start, Sheppard. They're going to want details. They're going to want to know what was done to you. Every little tiny detail. Think they'll want to know why you didn't just let Vee'rana rape you?_

John opened his eyes. _Shut up._

His imaginary friend chuckled softly somewhere in the shadows.

---------------------------------------

Ronon followed after Teyla, balancing two trays in his hands, one lighter than the other. Rodney came up behind carrying his own tray.

"You really think he's up to eating after the way he looked coming out of that room?" Rodney said. "He'll probably end up puking the moment he smells the food."

Ronon shot a glare over his shoulder. "Thanks for the mental picture, McKay."

"Hey! That's my line."

Sheppard's door whispered open to a twilight blue room sharpened by shadows. Teyla swept her free hand over the panel for the lights to ease on overhead. A curled lump beneath the blankets of the bed coiled even tighter emitting a soft groan.

Teyla moved quickly setting her tray down on the desk then moving to Sheppard's bed. "Colonel Sheppard?" It took some digging through layers of blankets before finding Sheppard's pale face that she placed her hand to.

"Rodney?" Teyla said, her voice tight. "Call Dr. Beckett. John feels too warm."

McKay shot Ronon an "I told you so" look before activating his com. Ronon slid the two trays he was holding onto a clear space on the desk to help Teyla remove some of the blankets. Underneath, Sheppard was in a tight fetal position with his arms pressed to his stomach, his skin verging on white, and his sweat-soaked clothes adhering tight to his body.

Teyla brushed back his moistened hair from his forehead. "Colonel Sheppard, what is wrong? Is it your stomach?"

He nodded. "Hurts."

"So why didn't you go see Beckett!" Rodney hissed.

Sheppard angled his head enough to look at them, pathetically abashed. "I was just going to lay down for a while, see if it helped, except I couldn't get back up." The sweat and John's body being exposed to the cooler air of the room made him shiver. Ronon covered him back up, just to his waist so he didn't feel so exposed.

Carson arrived not long after with nurses and Heightmeyer following behind. Ronon had to wonder if this was something she had anticipated. By the lack of surprise on her face, he would have to say, yes.

TBC...

A/N: This was the problem chapter, so apologies for any inconsistencies that may have escaped notice.


	24. Last Ditch Effort

Ch. 23

Last Ditch Effort

Rodney jiggled his leg to bleed off the agitation that kept coming from somewhere, like there was a leak in his own psyche. Kate was staring at him with that flawless calm of hers. He used to take that look to heart that all was right with the world, his world, because human beings as a whole weren't that unflappable without a reason.

Unless trained to be, which was why it now annoyed him. Things were _not_ right in the world, his or any others. Matters were messed up in a way ass-bitingly obvious yet impossible to point out in a single sentence.

"I can't buy it," he said. "I can't buy that progress has been made because it's been four days and his gut is still killing him."

"It's an ulcer, Rodney," Kate said, calm as her demeanor, which only provoked his agitation. "They tend to be painful and make it difficult to eat."

Rodney gave her a heavy lidded stare. "Yes, I know, I've had them. But Carson said he found evidence of a second ulcer forming. Look," he leaned forward, "I'm trying to make a point here, one beyond the obvious fact that Sheppard isn't doing any better. And that point is he's doing worse, I know he is. The question is: do you? Because you don't seem particularly troubled and I'm not talking about because it's your professional duty to remain neutral. Usually, if there's an exponential increase in the problem, you come to us by now, letting us in on it so we can help out. You haven't even talked to us – well, except me, obviously, since I'm here – until today."

Kate's expression didn't change. She was a professional after all, but it didn't help against Rodney's impression that Sheppard was either eluding her or had hit some point in his sessions with her that they couldn't break past. And that scared Rodney.

"How do you know he's getting worse?" she asked. "Other than the ulcers."

Rodney sighed, slumping back into the cushion of the padded chair. "He doesn't really talk as much anymore. Maybe the occasional please, thank you, yes, no, sure, and maybe a "turn the movie up" once and a while. Other than that, conversations with him are one-sided and about as stimulating as watching paint dry."

He looked down at his hands resting in his lap. "You want to know what's really weird, though? I always think 'if he doesn't want the company then why doesn't he ever kick us out of his room?' And he always comes looking for us even when all he does is stand there or sit there, never saying a word unless we make him. Oh, and he never sticks around for long. He comes, he sits, he stares, then bolts like he just remembered someplace important he needed to be. It's like he can't decide whether he wants to be alone or not."

McKay slumped down deeper into the chair and muttered without actually meaning to, "And he always comes to me last." He looked at Kate questioningly, hopeful for a positive answer, yet more afraid of a negative one. "You think... he's mad at me?" He had, not dragged but, at least, thoroughly convinced Sheppard to go to that party that had reduced him to a quivering mass of cold flesh after all. Rodney had once upon a time been safely ensconced in the belief that his intellect was all he needed in life. Social interactions were a distraction, an unnecessary hardship to develop and maintain, a waste of time that could be spent accomplishing what mattered.

Then he came to Atlantis, where social interactions couldn't be avoided, and he had been reduced to relying on those interactions like it was some kind of drug. He honestly could not stomach the thought of losing Sheppard's trust – again – not like this when he had just been trying to help. He didn't like the feeling that he had hurt Sheppard worse, tried not to think about it, so in turn thought on it too much.

As much as Rodney wanted to be the kind of friend that was there for the other, if Sheppard was avoiding him because of the results of that party, Rodney couldn't blame him.

"No," (space) Kate said. The firm resolve behind the answer startled Rodney more than the intrusion into his thoughts. He met Kate's gaze, and what he saw backed up the word with iron certainty.

"If he was angry with you," she said, "he wouldn't come to you at all. You're over-analyzing his actions. The order by which he visits each of you could simply be routine. He runs with Ronon in the mornings, spars with Teyla after lunch, and helps you in the lab when needed afterwards. But that's simply my theory on it."

Now it was Kate who was leaning forward. "You're right about everything else," she said with a weak, almost apologetic smile. "I can't divulge what I've noticed, but I've noticed little signs here and there that have me worried. It may be a matter of things getting worse before they get better. We still don't know everything that happened to him or was done to him and it'll probably be a while before we do. Until then, all we can do is continue with what we are doing now. It's pretty much all we have at this juncture."

"Well, can't you make him tell you what he isn't?" Rodney asked. "I mean, if this is some kind of repressed..." He gestured vaguely. "…_thing,_ then shouldn't we make him un-repress it?"

"At the risk of chasing him away?" Kate countered. "He would perceive it as an attack, Rodney. He'd fight back. And even if he did talk, it would be at the price of losing a large portion of his trust in us. He would no longer come to us willingly for help or support."

Rodney glared at her. "So we just keep doing what we're doing and that's it."

Kate shrugged. "Until we can figure something out. But a little advice – rather than worrying over him coming to you, you be the one to go to him. Take the initiative. I think he'd appreciate."

Rodney huffed pouring on thick the sarcasm, "Yeah, sure he would."

-------------------------------------

There was always a spot cleared on the nightstand for a tray to be placed. Teyla set it down behind the small electronic clock. Because of John's stomach problems he was back to eating mostly liquids and bland foods: vegetable soup, a soft roll, and a bottle of water. If Sheppard was unhappy about it, he had yet to express as much, which did not feel right.

Teyla took the bottle of pills given to John by Beckett and set them on the tray out of both necessity and tradition done for all of them. It could be difficult to remember to take the medicines, mostly because one was not used to the routine, but also part out of the medicines being possibly unpleasant.

With the tray ready, Teyla turned to the vaguely human-shaped lump beneath the covers, placing her hand within the vicinity of where the shoulder would be, and gave a gentle shake.

"Colonel Sheppard – John – your food is here."

The lump stirred before a head finally poked out from under the covers, turning to regard Teyla with vacant, bloodshot eyes. John shoved back the blankets and rolled with a grimace pressing his arm into his stomach onto his other side. Teyla helped him to sit up, adjusting the pillow behind his back. Dr. Beckett had wanted to keep John in the infirmary to help him with matters of staying comfortable, but it was a futile effort the way all the constant activity kept him tense and jumpy.

Teyla moved the tray onto his lap for easier reach and then took a seat on the edge of the bed. She watched him for a moment, briefly enough to keep his discomfort from rising. Not that she was sure if it mattered. He always seemed uncomfortable whether being stared at or not, and she doubted it had anything to do with the pain in his stomach.

He seemed thinner. Although, that might have been a trick of the light. At least she hoped it was. After the struggle to put on pounds, it would be cruel for him to lose them so easily.

"How are you feeling today?" she asked.

John shrugged a sweater-clad shoulder. "Better than yesterday. It's more like an ache, now."

Teyla smiled. "That is good to hear."

Nothing else was said since Teyla could not think of anything to speak of. Besides which, Sheppard seemed up for conversation less and less these days. Teyla assumed his current illness to blame. It was not a strong assumption; he had been acting unusually quiet even before then, as though he had run out of things to talk about.

When John was finished, Teyla moved the tray to help him settle back under the covers.

"Thanks Teyla," he slurred. He was asleep within seconds according to his steady breathing.

Teyla took the tray and left the room meeting Ronon just outside the door, leaning with an upraised arm against the wall. He pushed away from it to walk alongside the Athosian back to the mess.

"He was awake long enough to eat," she said. "I believe the pills Carson has him take make him tired."

Ronon nodded. "Probably," he said. "I've been thinking about it. I think I know something we could do."

"Do?" Teyla asked.

"With Sheppard. Heightmeyer said we should find things for him to do, remember?"

Teyla nodded. "Yes. What are your thoughts?"

--------------------------------------

Carson released a very weary sounding breath. "Oh, Ronon, lad, I don't know." He slipped his hands into his lab coat pockets. "In lieu of the current health problems he's been having, it would be taking a bit of a risk."

Ronon leaned in gripping the metal rail of the bed. Carson stood on the other side of it. "Doc, it's just the mainland. And we wouldn't go until he's over the ulcer thing."

"Well, it's more than just the ulcers, Ronon. Being fed on and restored multiple times, not to mention his stint in the cocoons – however long that had bloody lasted – did a number on his immune system and his ability to heal. It's not so much a matter of when he heals but if he remains healed. His wrist should be in a brace by now, but the bone still isn't to where I can remove the cast."

Ronon shrugged. "I didn't say we had to go as soon as possible. We won't take him out there if he's not up to it. It's just something to try. Just me, Teyla, McKay and Sheppard, no one else. We'll have a Jumper; the Athosians will be nearby in case we need help..."

Carson turned his gaze to Teyla standing at the end of the bed. Their looks were uncertain, hesitant, which Ronon had been expecting. He hadn't held out for an immediate "yes" when he'd pitched the idea for a camp-out on the mainland. Actually, he would have gone a little hesitant himself if Beckett had out and out agreed to it. It was a possible activity, nothing more, one Ronon wanted the others to mull over as Sheppard healed.

But he was holding out hope for a future go-ahead. Ronon couldn't say this was something Sheppard needed. All he knew was that Sheppard needed _something _beyond what they were doing now. There was a fight going on in the man's head and he was on the losing side of it, and current measures weren't doing a thing. There were only two certainties with Sheppard right now: he needed company without being crowded and space without actually being alone.

Ronon got that. He'd _been_ that and discovered there was no happy medium to it. He had missed the company of others in his solitude, and then his solitude while in the company of others. It had come down to one or the other until he preferred company and satisfied his need for solitude in his quarters or a trip to the mainland, always safe in the knowledge that company was close by.

The only difference was that Sheppard _did_ need a happy medium. He needed the best, or at the very least close to the best, of both worlds, and a team trip to the mainland was all he could come up with.

"Doc," Ronon said, "it's just something to try. And I want to talk to Sheppard about it."

Carson coughed a startled laugh. "Now _that_ is definitely not a good idea."

Ronon raised an eyebrow, which always had the effect of making people nervous, even though it was just a reaction of curiosity. "Why not?"

"Because he'll say yes!" Carson exclaimed as though it were obvious. "The poor lad is bloody desperate for some normalcy. He'd bungee jump off the central tower if he thought it would help in some way."

Now it was Teyla exchanging a look with Ronon, this one confused. Carson shook his head with an exasperated exhale. "Never mind. The fact is he won't even think about it, he'll just agree."

"He'll have to think about it while he's healing," Ronon said, then shrugged. "He might even change his mind."

"And if he doesn't?" Carson countered.

"Then he doesn't," Ronon replied. "Either way, he'd appreciate having the choice.

Carson nodded at that, pursing his lips thoughtfully, considering.

---------------------------------------

A camp out, on the mainland, just like in the good old days after a dry week with no off-world missions scheduled. Fresh air, sunshine...

_Wide open spaces with no cover._

_There will be trees._

_Face it, you'll spend most of the time cowering in the jumper._

John ignored the voice that was persistent, loud, but had no real control over him, just the occasional damn good point. The open places would make him edgy. He would fight it, of course, because he was sick of it - sick of so much damn paranoia – and would be fine for a while, then end up with another ulcer. It's why he'd been avoiding going outside at all, to let his stomach heal.

_Screw what ifs_

. He couldn't give into the paranoia of possible reactions to unpredictable fears. Something had to give, for good or bad. He was tired of arguing with himself about the fears. They were just stupid fears. Plus, his gut finally felt fine.

"I want to go."

Carson wasn't happy about it, Heightmeyer was on the fence, but leaning toward it being a good thing, and Elizabeth torn between the two. They even went as far as to hold a meeting about it-- just them, John and his team. They laid out the pros and the cons, Carson dwelling on potential health risks and Kate going for the "he could use a change of scenery" bit, although, putting it more technically.

In the end, it was John's decision. His mind screamed no for reasons that pissed him off.

_What if the wraith come? It'll just be you and your team. They'll know what you did. What if you can't get back? What if you get hurt?_

_Do you deserve it?_

Crap he hated it, hated that voice, that doubt. Before Morticia and her Nazi-esque creativity for inflicting pain these doubts would have never seen the light of consideration. These doubts weren't even doubts. They were plain old irrational dread.

So while his brain hissed, "No," his breath spat, "I want to go," sealing the matter.

-----------------------------------

Rodney flew the jumper. John's hands itched to take the controls and he felt like scum for it. The want and need to guide the ship by his will, and recall what it was to fly, to take back a piece of himself – it didn't feel right. Too soon, maybe. Or maybe too late. Either way, he wasn't sure. At least he had the open sky to enjoy, a front row seat from the co-pilots chair where his heart timidly whispered he didn't belong.

They set down in a clearing that Ronon had picked out after a little reconnaissance since the Athosian settlement was out of the question. John's new-found loathing to crowds aside, he'd asked Teyla about at least letting Halling and Jinto know so they could drop by and say hi. John felt like he hadn't seen the two in forever. She'd been more vocal than the others about it being unwise at this juncture. Their caution pissed him off – not at them, more at himself that he was radiating that strong an aura of fragility. Teyla's stronger reluctance boggled him, but each time he tried to bring it up, she swiftly changed the subject.

Even McKay was impressed by their surroundings and said as much, "Not bad, actually." The summer foliage was thick, a near-solid canopy of fluttering green, whispering like the ocean heard at a distance. Sunlight glittered through the gaps bright and almost hypnotic.

"The river's not far from here," Ronon said, circling the site picking up bits of wood for a fire.

The trees of the deeper forest were huge, like cottonwoods, oaks, and redwoods with trunks twice the width of a man. It was easy to avoid tripping over the roots. Most of them arched out of the ground high enough for a person to crawl under, curtained in bright green hanging lichens. And it was so alive, the birdcalls so loud, almost thick enough to feel like a light pressure expanding in John's chest. Each breath smelling of wood and earth was like water to his thirsty lungs.

He liked it, all of it. Leaves too dense to see through, trees too tall and too many to fly through, and creatures not afraid to make noise. John's brain couldn't argue against it – it was safe here.

There wasn't much in the way of a camp to set up. A fire ring surrounded by a few folding chairs, a cooler of food, and that was it. McKay, who always complained about the time being wasted by him on these outings (while needing the break just as much as the rest of them) settled in a lawn chair with his laptop. American Express had nothing on his PC. Rodney would sooner go without a limb than his computer.

John, Teyla, and Ronon set about exploring the immediate area all the way to the river. They were by the falls cascading in an explosion of crystal foam over rounded rocks. The river itself was fast but shallow enough to wade through, only coming ankle high. It deepened further down, steady waves turning into wild, bucking rapids.

At the waterfall end were pockets created by eddies and rocks where fish sometimes got trapped. Sheppard and Teyla watched from the shore as Ronon waded to the pockets, snatching up fish with his bare hands that he tossed onto shore. Teyla and John gathered them up stuffing them into a plastic bag to cook that night. The things were slick, wild, and made a funny high-pitched grunt of alarm when touched. They were also pretty to look at; scales the color of mica reflecting the chromatic scale when they caught the light just right. It seemed a shame to eat them.

As soon as they returned to the camp, Ronon fashioned a spit out of wood long enough to cook four fish on. John hunkered down in a chair with a blanket over his knees. The weather was warm but degrees cooler in the shade, and of the fifteen pounds gain, eight had been lost thanks to the ulcers and slowed healing. That and... John just never seemed able to get warm enough, he didn't know why.

Ronon let the fish cook, until the iridescent fish skin turned charcoal gray, and then took them off the spit to let Teyla handle the rest in terms of adding seasoning. Teyla may have had trouble making that tuttle root soup she liked (she was always complaining how it was never like Charrin's) but she knew her way around a kitchen. Adding packets of seasoning to the rest of the vest supplies had become practically mandatory during mission prep. If they were forced to catch wild game, why not make the effort a little more worth it?

"Are you sure this is sanitary?" Rodney asked, craning his neck to watch Teyla work. "We have no idea where these fish have been, or what they have in them."

"McKay, relax," John drawled. "I've flown over the mainland enough times to know there are no nuclear power plants in the vicinity. So if one of the fish happens to have three eyes, then rest assured, nature intended it."

"Puffer fish," Rodney said. "Ever had that? They have to get experts to prepare it just so the patron doesn't keel over because it was inappropriately cut."

"My people fish from this river often," Teyla said. She had slit the fishes' bellies, deboned them, and was now gingerly rubbing a pale brown spice into the meat. "They have yet to 'keel over' from them." When done, she put each fish on a plate and passed them around. Potato salad the cooks had made just for them was added as a side dish.

The fish was good, moist. The seasoning like mild garlic salt. Ronon told them a Satedan ghost story about a wraith spirit that had drowned in a lake to return every five years to drag unsuspecting travelers to the bottom. Rodney complained about where people come up with arbitrary numbers like "five years". Sheppard, since Teyla and Ronon had been subject to the Friday the 13th movies and thought them about as scary as a decapitated wraith (Ronon had said as much), told them about Bloody Mary.

"Why would someone conjure something that's just going to kill them?" Ronon asked.

John shrugged. "Why would someone take a walk along a lake shore where a wraith is waiting to grab them?"

Ronon lifted his eyebrows in understanding.

"Why does anyone believe this crap in the first place?" Rodney griped.

John clapped him lightly on the arm. "Rite of passage, McKay. You can either prove to your buddy you're a bad-ass by risking the wrath of a dead girl in a mirror, or by risking a week of no TV and dessert because you gave them a bloody nose instead. I had a cousin who said he'd summoned Mary, and the next day his great aunt died. Of course, she'd been a hundred and four at the time, but he'd still been pretty freaked out about it."

"That's because kids will believe anything," Rodney said.

"Actually, he was eighteen at the time. Since then, he hasn't looked into any kind of reflective surface for_five_ years."

The reaction was immediate. Rodney rolled his eyes. "Oh come on, how can someone avoid their reflection for five..." he blinked, then narrowed his eyes. "Wait..."

John grinned while Teyla and Ronon chuckled and Rodney glowered. It hit him, right then, how good this all felt. It seemed like forever since he had said anything, _really_ said anything, beyond monosyllabic responses, but he couldn't for the life of him recall why except that there had been nothing to say. Or he hadn't known what to say.

Since he was probably better off not exploring the 'why', he stopped wondering and focused on Ronon's next story about an ancient village destroyed by the spirits of those they had sacrificed to the wraith.

--------------------------------------

"Little one."

John lifted his head meeting Morticia's shark-eyed gaze. She smiled serrated teeth and stepped sideways like a curtain opening up mid-scene. Vee'rana, corpse pale, was on her knees stroking the spider-web white hair of an aged and dead Anja.

"Are you happy, John?" she simpered like a child. She looked at him with milk-white eyes. "Do they know yet?" She giggled, still the happy little school girl. "I should tell them. That would be funny. John is a kill-er," she sing-songed. "John likes to ki-ill." Then she paused, tilting her head to one side. "But I'm hungry."

Vee'rana opened her mouth, curling her lips back from pointed teeth, and lunged.

John snapped upright choking on a scream in a dark place surrounded by indefinable shadows.

"John?"

A hand touching his shoulder sent him scuttling backward until he hit a wall where he pulled his knees up to his chest and hunkered down. Lights flared, blinding, and he yelped, slamming his eyes shut.

"Sheppard? Hey, Sheppard! Open your eyes and look at me."

Ronon, that was Ronon. Recollection hit him like a stun blast and he slowly peeled his eyelids apart. He had scurried into the jumper console between the seats and was currently surrounded by Ronon, Teyla and Rodney – Teyla and Ronon crouched and Rodney standing just within the door.

John exhaled the sharp breath he'd been holding and closed his eyes. He tilted his head back against the console with a whispered, "Son of a bitch."

"Colonel?" Teyla cautiously asked.

"Bad dream," John breathed, swallowing when his dry throat tried to stick together. "Sorry, just a bad dream."

"That was one hell of a bad dream," Rodney muttered.

John shivered and opened his eyes. "I didn't think I'd have one." At least not one of the bad ones. There were always nightmares: some that didn't wake him, some he woke from quietly, and those that came more often than they should have, leaving him sweat-soaked and gasping for breath. He'd thought he'd gone to bed relaxed enough not to have the latter.

"Do you have them often?" Teyla asked.

John shrugged one shoulder. "Off and on."

"What do you do afterwards?" Ronon asked next, and not because inquiring minds wanted to know; John could tell by the partial squint of suspicion in the Satedan's eyes.

He licked his lips. "Just... try to go back to sleep. Seriously, guys, I didn't think I would have one..."

When Teyla placed her hand on his shoulder, he flinched, but she ignored it by giving him a reassuring smile. "It is all right, John. If you want, I could make you some tea that will help you sleep."

John forced a tremulous smile he could barely hold. "You know I always love a good cup of tea." He grabbed the two seats, using them to help him rise until Ronon proffered his hand. John took it and let Ronon pull him up as the Satedan stood. They moved back to the rear of the jumper, sliding into their sleeping bags, John's on top of a mat because Carson was still wary about his bone density.

Sheppard wished he could curl up in the confined space of the bag. He was suddenly cold, cold enough to shiver noticeably until a blanket was spread on top of his sleeping bag. A hand squeezed his arm through both coverings, but no one said anything except Ronon.

"Tea's probably going to take a while. Try to get a little more sleep 'til then."

John just nodded. He heard the bay door whine open, and felt a prick of regret that he'd made Teyla think it necessary to brew tea in the middle of the night.

_This isn't over. _

He was starting to really wonder if it would ever be.

TBC...

A/N: Yes, I know the camping on the main-land thing has been done to death, but Sheppard needed _something_ – an escape, vacation, more space to think. So camping on the mainland they went.

And, apparently, some people don't read author's notes. Once again, not helpful - "(word) should be spelled like this. Please fix your spelling mistakes." Again, I'm not asking for nothing but praise. What I'm asking for is a helpful critique that doesn't make me feel like an idiot. Because whatever your intent, reviews like the one I used for my example do carry an undertone of "you're a less-than intelligent individual who doesn't know how to spell, and I wouldn't comment except that you are making the rest of us miserable with your spelling errors." Harsh and probably exaggerated, I know, but you have to remember that the written word doesn't come with the benefit of tone and facial expressions. Short and to the point may be the easiest way to respond, but it leaves way too much room to be interpreted badly.


	25. Shatter

A/N: This was the hardest of all the chapters. And also my favorite. As always. Thank you everyone who reviewed, and thank you Drufan for the wonderful and much needed beta'ing.

Ch. 24

Shatter

John wished he had said something while he had the chance, because Teyla had given him the opening to talk about his dream and everything that went with it. It wasn't so much that anything had changed in some drastic manner that had left them uneasy in each other's company. Nothing had changed, actually, except that Sheppard was more aware.

More aware of their caution, their concern, and an air of walking on eggshells around him. It had been the prevalent attitude since Carson had brought him home. He was used to it, but without the extra distractions Atlantis provided in the form of movies, music, and the team needed elsewhere, it was taking longer getting back to ignoring it.

Which wasn't happening. It was McKay's constant exaggerated consideration – practically tripping over himself to make John feel comfortable (he had gone as far as slipping candy bars into John's bag as though he hadn't noticed, and even handing over a painstakingly put together s'more when John's had fallen in the fire) that made it all so glaring.

It hurt being so aware of it. All that effort, that kind of compassion and love that only a family would have for each other, was candy to the little voice hissing on just how much of a selfish bastard he was to the image of Anja being sucked to ninety years of age. John argued he couldn't have known that that would happen to Anja, that it was going to happen. The voice argued back that he had known all right. It was, after all, the reason he wasn't supposed to have made friends with the woman and her children.

_You leave her kids orphans to avoid one night of rolling around in the sack and let everyone think you're the victim? That woman died for the sake of your dignity and control issues, Sheppard. And you won't tell them, the ones who have the right to know – who need to know – that you aren't the selfless leader they think you are._

John should have said something and was now lamenting it. He wished they would ask already. He knew they wanted to ask, but putting _him_ first wouldn't let them. He knew the voice was right, about everything – that they needed to know, had a right to know, would eventually find out in some unforeseen manner anyways; but for those inexplicable reasons that always turned out to be a bunch of crap in the end, John couldn't bring himself to say anything.

He opted for long, as near as possible to solitary, walks from the camp to the river and back; never truly solitary because Ronon would always be several steps behind watching his back against the still-unknown dangers of the mainland. John both appreciated it and hated it, which was pretty much the story of his life as of late. Hate, mostly. He hated solitude and company. He hated distraction and the constant chatter of his own brain. The kindness and concern, wanting it, not wanting it, and not deserving it. His desire for secrecy, the guilt of keeping secrets, the guilt over what he had done, knowing he hadn't meant it, knowing he should have known, the voice that was always right and his inability to tell it otherwise.

Above all, he was really, _really _starting to hate himself. But he supposed _that_ he deserved.

--------------------------------------------------

Ronon didn't think Sheppard was trying to lose him by waking up an hour earlier each night for another long walk to the river. The new routine had manifested after only two days, today making three nights in a row. John had been doing a lot of walking, always to and from the river morning, then again at noon, and staying until twilight. No one asked him about it since there wasn't much of a point. If Sheppard answered, it would be something elusive, simple, or he just wouldn't answer at all. It was his way.

Although, Ronon had to wonder if John took the walks to keep from saying anything.

That dream. One night of normalcy shattered by a single nightmare. It wasn't as though they didn't know Sheppard had been having bad dreams, that some of those dreams reduced him to a quivering lump of terror and skewed reality. There would be a feeling of humiliation on John's part, but he was acting more as though the others had seen something they were not meant to see more than witnessing something that was a little on the embarrassing side.

It was achingly obvious he was ashamed to be around them.

As per the routine, Ronon forced himself to wait until the beam of the flashlight was only a blob of flickering white through the foliage, then got up to follow after. Sheppard wasn't a dull-witted man and probably knew he was being followed. Ronon, however, felt the man deserved a little bit of an illusion of isolation. This time he left a note rather than waking Teyla to tell her what he was doing Then he set off into the woods after his team leader, accustomed as needed to wade through the underbrush in the dark, which was walking a wide clear path compared to running for his life at night.

He found Sheppard in his usual spot – sitting on a bare, flat shelf of rock on the shore's edge just out of reach of the fall's spray, hunched and miserable in a gray sweater, black sweat pants, and tennis-shoes without socks. As much as Ronon tried not to think it, in the pale light of the early twilight hours, Sheppard seemed smaller and frailer, enough to be carried away like dead leaves and dust on the wind.

There was little in life that frightened Ronon, really truly scared him on a continuous basis beyond the immediate moment that was more fight or flight instinct. Fears of the kind that were mental – what-ifs and probabilities, worries and concerns that stuck to him, sitting at the back of his mind like a lump of cold stone. Five little rocks – his new home, the people who resided there, and the three he called teammates.

What Ronon saw now scared the hell out of him, because it was almost too easy to think Sheppard an inferior copy of himself, hollowed out, and decaying right before his team's eyes until there was no Sheppard – real or fake – left to them. It also pissed him off. As much as he understood the need to be alone, he didn't want Sheppard to be alone. Yes, technically he wasn't, it just felt like he was.

Ronon was usually better at self restraint but he really couldn't take it anymore. It was being selfish, he knew. He didn't care. He'd come to learn the hard way that people really weren't better off alone.

So he broke from his cover, taking long but casual strides to a rock several feet from Sheppard's and settling himself down on it. If Sheppard knew he was there, he didn't act like it, or acknowledge his presence in anyway, which was fine. It wasn't about being acknowledged, it was about being there.

-------------------------------------------

There wasn't enough heat to the fire to rekindle it. Teyla piled fresh wood over the gray ashes and then lit the kindling with her laser. The wood smoked before smoldering with red-hot embers that she gently blew on coaxing tired sparks into tongues of flames. She set the metal tea-pot of water next to those flames.

"Morning."

Teyla looked up at Dr. McKay stepping out of the jumper, lifting his arms and arching his back in a stretch. The blue-striped button night-shirt he wore rode up exposing a sliver of white belly. McKay must have felt a draft when he dropped out of the stretch tugging the shirt down while glancing around.

"Sheppard and Ronon on another little nature hike, I take it," he said with masked indifference. "I swear they keep getting up earlier and earlier. It's barbaric."

Teyla smiled in response, holding the black iron pan over the fire to heat it.

Rodney clapped his hands together, rubbing them vigorously. "So... what's on the agenda for today? Waiting for Sheppard to come back? More waiting? Seriously, is it just me or has he been avoiding us. I thought the whole point of this trip was team bonding. And what's for breakfast?"

"Bacon and orfa eggs."

Rodney's eyes brightened. "Those eggs with the really big yoke? I love those." He padded over to the nearest chair and settled down, leaning forward with hungry intent when Teyla cracked the first of the blue/violet eggs into the pan when it was finally hot enough.

"The purpose of this trip was to occupy Colonel Sheppard," Teyla said.

"Which is working out _oh_ so well," McKay coolly replied. "Someone needs to talk to him. Seriously, he can't avoid us forever and the whole 'giving him time and space' theory appears to be having a backwards affect. You should talk to him. You're good at that kind of thing."

Teyla gnawed her bottom lip to hide a wince. Talking to Sheppard, getting him to respond – as much as she longed for Sheppard to tell her what was wrong-- it felt too hypocritical of her expecting him to open up when she was making an effort to avoid opening up herself. In times like these, she would have been confiding in Halling by now, and could not bring herself to do even that much.

Guilt surged biting, and in an uncharacteristic show of bitterness for having the emotion resurfaced, she tightly responded, "Are you not usually the one pushing John to speak when he does not wish to?"

Rodney blinked, mouth partially open in a gape. "Uh, well..." his stuttering brought her a momentary sense of vindication. Then he cleared his throat uneasily. "I, uh... I think I've kind of done enough damage."

Teyla's revenge heaped her guilt higher. She had forgotten Rodney was still retaining remorse from the incident at the party. She said nothing, flipping the eggs as a brief distraction until she was able to formulate kinder words. "I think," she said, "that is why we have not talked to him. I do not believe what we are doing, and have done, can be considered as right or wrong. We are merely trying and, so far, what we have tried has not worked. I think..." She looked up at him "…we are all afraid of making things worse."

Rodney snorted a caustic laugh. "This is really bad, isn't it? And I mean 'we-have-no-freakin'-clue-how-bad-this-is' kind of bad. A nothing-we-can-do bad. So bad that even if we did get him to tell us what happened, it won't make a damn lick of difference." He stared off into the woods, seconds crawling by in a long moment of contemplative silence. "He'll probably end up wanting to go back to earth, thinking himself useless or something." He shook his head and then looked directly at her with fright in his eyes and a jaded expression on his face. "What do we do?"

It pained her, not being able to answer.

--------------------------------------------

Ronon's silent presence was killing John, and he suddenly missed the man's more obscured presence to this obvious one. It was a distraction, yet not the kind he needed.

_Is this really fair, John? He's not going to leave until you leave. Look at him. Patient, calm, like he does this kind of thing all the time. He's doing it for you. He's out here because of you, thought up this whole camping trip thing for you. Rodney, Teyla – they came for you. They're helping '**you'**. Looking out for **'you'**. Wasting their time and talents all for **'you'**. And you refuse to tell them to stop, to let you go. Damn, you really are selfish._

John dropped his eyes to the rock he was sitting on, picking up a twig caught in a shallow crevice. He used his thumbnail to dig into the desperately clinging remainder of bark, peeling it all the way to the smooth bone-white insides. As a preoccupation, it sucked. Ronon's proximity was giving the voice plenty to talk about.

_They're going to find out, John. And it'll be bad, because they aren't going to be too happy about you having kept this from them. They need to be able to trust you and they can't. Shouldn't you let them know? Shouldn't you let them in on the possibility that the next time you lead them off world and you hear a dart coming that you're going to take off back to the gate, everyone else be damned?_

John picked faster. _That's not going to happen._

You sure?

I would never do that to them. If there was even the slightest possibility, he would resign his commission, return to Earth, and never look back. He would never do that to his team, and would do what he had to in order to prevent it.

But the voice had its intent and its tactics. _Go back to Earth – good idea, John. Play it safe. Give up._

The twig snapped in John's shaking hands.

_Oh, that's right, you're not a quitter. Think about it, John, and I mean really think about it. If they knew, all knew, how far you went for the sake of 'not giving up and giving in' how do you think they're going to handle it?_

John shook his head. _They won't care. I've done a lot of things, made a lot of mistakes. They've forgiven me._

Just like you forgave McKay after Doranda.

I did forgive him.

You stopped trusting him.

I don't trust his ego. I trust him.

Does he know that?

Yes he knows that. Damn it, he knows! He...

You're a hypocrite. How is what you did any different? What right do you have to be treated any different? What right do you have to keep their trust?

John covered his ears, hoping the physical affect would translate to a mental one and shut the damn voice up.

_Crap you're pathetic. The queen should have just killed you. You're useless._

_Shut up, just shut up!_

_You know it's true, John. All of it! You screwed up. You were selfish. And because of that, two people are dead!_

_I didn't know, I didn't freakin' know!_

_You did know! You did! When are you going to stop feeling sorry for yourself, wake up, and realize it! Crap, John! All you'd needed to do was give in. One night, one romp, let Vee'rana take you and end of story. But you didn't because your precious pride couldn't handle it. Sticking it to one worshiper was more important than the life of an innocent woman, a mother, a human being who was nothing but kind to you. You killed her, John. You. Killed. Her. You made a choice and you chose yourself. You killed her._

_No..._

_You freakin' killed her!_

_I didn't... _

_YOU KILLED HER JOHN SHEPPARD. YOU KILLED HER!_

"Nooo! Shut up just shut up you bastard shut uuuup!"

"Sheppard?"

John snapped his head around to see Ronon staring at him wearing a look not normally seen on the stoic runner: hesitant fear. John stared back, chest heaving, body shaking, blood running fast and arctic in his veins. He hadn't realized he'd said anything out loud. Horror squeezed his chest. Shame danced with anger, revulsion morphing into panic that had him pulling in his surroundings searching out the quickest escape route. This was the point where Ronon would ask what was wrong. Or ask nothing at all, say nothing at all. He would convince John to head back to the camp where they would pack up, head home, and the runner would tattle to Heightmeyer and Carson because it wasn't healthy answering the voices in your head out loud.

Then the questions would come the real questions everyone had been afraid to ask but would have to ask. The questions he wanted them and not wanted them to ask. The million dollar question.

What the hell happened to you on that ship?

And it would be about damn time.

John laughed, small at the start with a few convulsive jerks of his chest__ working upward into breathy, fast and hysterical. He wanted them to ask. Oh, gosh, how he wanted them to ask, couldn't wait for them to ask. So why wait for the question when he could just give the answer right here, right now? Like practice, so that the next time he had to reiterate it to numerous shrinks__ it would sound better.

John didn't care anymore. He just wanted the voice to stop.

It hit him with such a nauseating sense of deja vu that tears burned in his eyes spilling down his face even as he laughed and cringed. "Ronon," he gasped. "Ronon I – I did something bad."

------------------------------------------

Ronon blinked. "What?"

John covered his mouth trying to dam back the laughter convulsing his body. Tears poured fast down his cheeks, even rolling over the tips of his fingers.

"I..." Sheppard started from behind his hand, then lowered it to cough__ and pushed onward through hiccups and silent chuckling. "I did a bad, bad thing."

Ronon narrowed his eyes. "What did you do?"

The laughter increased, high-pitched and fast, giddy giggles of manic amusement that disturbed Ronon like nothing ever had. Dex rose abruptly, surging forward, pushing frustration over fear thinking possibly, just possibly, John had been compromised after all. In which case, Sheppard didn't have the luxury to play verbal games.

"What did you do?" Ronon snarled, advancing fast, stretching to his full height.

The action had an immediate effect, just not the one Ronon wanted. Sheppard panicked, the laughter died, and his body froze for less than a heartbeat Then he startled into motion, scrabbling madly back over the rock__ only to crash back-first onto the ground and cry out. The broken whimper of pain halted Ronon. Sheppard, however, kept scrambling until blocked by a boulder that he shrank against, shaking.

Shocked, Ronon took a step back, raising his hands in placation and asking in a softer voice "What did you do, Sheppard?"

John looked up at him, wide-eyed, frightened__ before his gaze grew distant and glassy, deteriorating back to that earlier display of insanity. His mouth twitched as though unable to decide whether to form a frown or a smile. "I killed Anja."

Ronon lowered his hands and furrowed his brow. "The girl you tried to save?"

John nodded. He braced himself against the rock behind him to push himself shakily to his feet leaving a trail of bloody hand prints over the slick surface. That explained the cry of pain, as did the way he cradled his casted wrist to his chest.

"I killed her," he said more quietly, and the manic glee left his eyes. In its place was confusion__and while his gaze wandered their surroundings__ as if realizing for the first time where he was__ Sheppard moved away from the boulder. Ronon made to follow, thinking Sheppard was heading back to the camp, when the pilot stopped, stared into the forest, turned, stared at the waterfall, and then let his gaze wander again.

"Sheppard?" Ronon said, quietly, kindly, keeping every muscle locked to prevent any sudden movement that might spook the man. "You told us you tried to save her."

John's gaze hardened, turning confusion to anger, and he shook his head. "I knew," he spat with so much loathing one would think he was talking about Kolya. "I knew what Vee'rana would do." He started to pace, slow, to and from the shore__ agitated and tense as a caged, wild animal. "I knew what the consequences would be. I knew, I damn well knew. And I didn't care." He stopped, blinking, the confusion returning. "No... No, I – I cared. I did care. I just... I couldn't. It would have been giving up. It... I..." Anger replaced confusion, harder, hotter, flickering like lightning in John's eyes. He curled his lip in a snarl and his fingers into a tight fist squeezing drops of blood that patted like first rain on the rocky ground.

"I'm a selfish son of a _bitch_!" he whirled around fast slamming his foot into the boulder, then scooped up pebbles and stones, one after the other, tossing them at the rock, the river, across the river, wherever he could__ and with enough force that it amazed Ronon he didn't dislocate his shoulder.

"Let her take me!" he yelled, throwing a rock at the boulder that clacked off the surface, leaving a white scar. "That's all!" A pebble at the river. "Let her rape me!" A rock at the fall. "One stupid night!" A rock over the river to crack loud into a tree. "But I wouldn't! Because I'm a control freak!" The last pebble he tossed too far for Ronon to see where it landed. Sheppard didn't pick up another. He stumbled back, slamming the heel of his hands into his head repeatedly. "You happy you son of a bitch? I said it! You happy, huh? You happy now!" He hammered his forehead, hitting then squeezing then more hitting.

Balking, bewildered, hesitant for no more than a second, Ronon finally rushed forward, grabbing John's wrists and pulling his hands away. "Sheppard! Sheppard, calm down! Look at me. John, look at me now!"

John didn't look at him. He fought, screaming, bucking backward, kicking out forcing Ronon to finally pin him to the ground, flipping him onto his stomach to pull his arm up behind his back with the other arm trapped under his body. Had this been anyone else, the usual procedure would have been to plant his knee in the spine, or his elbow. Ronon went for pressing his body into Sheppard's back, dispersing the pressure to prevent as little pain as possible, though the pebbles and rocks digging into John's chest and stomach couldn't be doing him any favors.

Ronon was so intent on trying to restrain Sheppard in a way that wouldn't hurt him that he barely noticed the man going still__except for the shaking, which was worse.

"Ronon," John said, his voice high and strained and afraid. "Ronon, get off me." He squirmed, just a little. "Ronon, come on, please. You've – you've gotta get off me."

Sheppard was begging. It hit Ronon, then, both what he was doing and what it must be causing Sheppard to relive, and it sickened him. He didn't hesitate moving off of Sheppard, but kept a good yet gentle grip on one wrist. "Sorry," he said, leading Sheppard out of the falls' spray and back to the flat rock. He coaxed John to sit. Sheppard did, dropping onto the rock, cradling his head in one hand, the casted arm pressed against his stomach.

Ronon crouching in front of him, waited long enough for Sheppard to get a little more together__ and then asked, "What happened?"

Sheppard's body shuddered. He sucked in a shaking breath. "They killed Anja because I fought back. They killed the woman I fought back against because... she kept me up all night humming. And she wanted to…um..."

"Rape you?" Ronon supplied.

John lifted his head enough for Ronon to see his bloodshot, tired, yet glaring eyes. "I was going to say 'have her way with me'."

Ronon just shrugged.

John shook his head and dropped his hand to his side. "What happened to Anja... I knew it would happen. What happened to Vee'rana – the, uh, humming rapist – I didn't expect that. I didn't want it to happen, either. I'd just wanted her to leave me alone."

Ronon moved to sit beside John. "What happened to Vee'rana?"

"Wraith queen broke her neck." John swallowed convulsively, hunching miserably. "That's when I bowed, because I wanted Vee'rana to leave me alone."

Ronon stared at John__ who kept his gaze anywhere but on Ronon. Shame and anger and pure self-loathing rippled off the man like a heat wave. It was painful sensing it just as bad as seeing it.

"I was selfish," John said, monotone, empty and completely defeated.

It pissed Ronon off. And here he thought he couldn't hate the wraith more than he already did. For a moment, he said nothing, unable to. Beneath the anger was a sudden desire to weep for the man who was his friend more than he was his leader. It was a sorrow that encompassed more than the wounded body and broken mind beside him. It took into account heart and soul that, for all Ronon knew, had been irrevocably damaged: pieces of Sheppard that it had once been so easy to believe could never be so much as cracked.

Damn the wraith. Damn them all to the underworld.

Ronon placed his hand on the quaking shoulder. "It wasn't your fault." By the Ancestors, none of it was his fault. Ronon knew in a way no one else could ever lay claim to, understood in a way words were insufficient to describe. The pain, confusion, torture, self-hatred – all of it. He knew he got it.

And it was only now hitting him. The need to cry became a need to laugh and punch himself in the face.

Ronon dropped his hand from John's shoulder. "When I was a Runner…" He leaned forward resting his elbows on his knees, inclined enough for a better view of Sheppard's face "…the first four days released, I got it through my head pretty fast to avoid populated worlds. Which wasn't possible. So I thought that if I could just avoid the towns and cities, keep the wraith hunting me away from them, then that would be good enough. It was, if the town or city was far enough away, a couple- of-days-to-get-there kind of distance. I'd always make sure to go the opposite way, keep close to the gate to head out as soon as possible. I did everything I could to avoid populations. Except... they didn't always avoid me. One injury, one disease, forcing me to stay longer, seek shelter. Then one planet, one wound too infected to deal with. There was a town nearby. The people found me, brought me back to help me. And I let them. I thought, 'why not?' The wraith hadn't come as quick as they usually had. I thought I had time enough to let them help me. When they were done and I was strong enough, I left... just as the wraith came."

John's head moved toward Ronon. Not enough to establish eye contact, just enough to let Ronon know he was listening.

"When it comes to the wraith," Ronon continued, "there's no doing anything right. You would have been holding off the inevitable by sleeping with Vee'rana, Sheppard. Not stopping it."

"It would have bought Anja a little more time with her kids," John argued, "or until the hive was attacked."

"Probably not," Ronon said. "They probably would have killed her for something else. Maybe just to see how you would react. And there wouldn't have been one night with Vee'rana. There would be night after night with someone else being threatened in between."

John's shoulders hunched and back curved in a cringe, and he shuddered. Ronon knew, in a way, that meant she had done it again. And if she had done it again...

"Did she?" Ronon asked.

"She tried," John said, emotionless, "then died."

"You didn't have a choice," Ronon stated.

"She was going to kill Anja's daughter." John's head shot up to lock eyes with Ronon at last, pleading, confused and drowning in utter despair. "Ronon, what did I do wrong? If the ship hadn't been attacked__ I would have given them everything they wanted. Where did I go wrong?"

Ronon had already answered that question, but not in the way Sheppard needed to hear. "No where. There was nothing you could have done."

"Then why doesn't it feel like it? Why won't the voice shut up?"

"Because the voice doesn't know anything" Ronon growled. "You didn't do anything, Sheppard."

John snorted and the bitter rage turned his gold-green eyes dark and heated. "I know."

Ronon grabbed his shoulder, squeezing hard enough to force John away from that line of thought. "You didn't do anything because everything that happened was exactly what the wraith had wanted. You couldn't do anything wrong. There was no right or wrong. And I know because I have to remind myself of that every day. As much as I hated myself for what happened to that town, I hated the wraith even more. As much as I thought I didn't deserve to live, life was the only revenge I had against them. Life, Sheppard. Living. Right here, right now. If that voice starts arguing otherwise, think about the wraith, what they did to you, what they made you do. They broke you, Sheppard, but broken things can be put back together. Just ask McKay."

That elicited a very brief, very sickly twitch of a smile from John. "How do I do that... put myself together?"

Ronon shrugged. "Don't know. But we'll help you figure it out."

John looked down at his hands, turning them palm up. The blood had dried into flakes and crusts all over his palms and brown in his fingernails The source was from cuts and scrapes that weren't deep but needed to be cleaned up. "I don't know what to say to the others."

"Say what you can."

John looked at him. "What do you think'll happen if I do?"

Ronon stared back. "They'll listen." It probably wasn't the answer John wanted it was simply the only one Ronon could give. Honestly, there didn't need to be an answer. They already knew. Teyla, always open minded, would listen, absorb, and understand. Rodney would probably be more shocked, more troubled. Yet despite what Sheppard might be thinking, he would regard John no differently.

Ronon clasped him lightly on the shoulder-blade. "Ready to go back?" He wasn't going to make him, but they needed to return. John was still shivering hard and looked like he could barely manage sitting up. His sweater was moist from early morning dew and the spray from the waterfall, enhancing the chill Ronon knew Sheppard was feeling. Then there were the cuts on his hands that needed to be taken care of immediately.

John didn't reply except to give an unsteady nod. Ronon helped him to his feet, keeping hold of his arm when Sheppard wasn't able to find stable footing. They weren't half-way back to the camp when Sheppard folded his arms tight around his chest with a sharply indrawn breath. "D-damn, when did it g-get so c-cold?"

The air was cool at best, and barely. Ronon removed his coat placing it around John's shoulders. It didn't really help. As soon as they arrived back at camp, John was barely keeping upright out of exhaustion and Ronon was practically carrying him. He got John into the jumper, removed the coat and shoes, and then wrapped him below the armpits in the sleeping bag to still have access to his hands.

Sheppard was out the moment he was prone. Not even the sting of the alcohol could wake him. Between the poor sleep and a complete mental shattering, Ronon wasn't surprised. He wrapped John's hands in gauze and tucked them inside the bag, pulling it up to his shoulders and adding a second blanket on top. He left John to his sleep, heading for the fire and sprawling himself into the nearest chair. Watching a mental shattering and preventing subsequent damage from it was exhausting. It wasn't until Rodney and Teyla returned carrying a plastic bag of mushrooms that he realized they'd been gone.

Both stepped out of the woods, slowing on approach when they took notice of him.

"Ronon?" Teyla said, eyes wide and searching. "Where is John?"

"Jumper," Ronon said, "sleeping."

Rodney looked from the jumper to Ronon. "Is he all right?"

"Nope."

Both his teammates gave him an odd look, Teyla's bewildered and Rodney's about to tip over into irate.

"Probably better than he was, though," Ronon said.

Teyla finished her short trip to the fire, pulling a cutting board from their bag of cooking utensils to slice the mushrooms on. "Breakfast is almost ready. We'll he be wanting any?" she asked.

Ronon shook his head. "Let him sleep. He needs that more right now."

"Why, what happened?" Rodney said, still standing, obviously torn between getting answers out of Ronon and going to check on John.

"Sheppard'll tell you when he wakes up.

Which didn't happen until early evening. John awoke looking worse off than when he had gone to sleep – red-eyed, pale and uncoordinated. He remained wrapped up in his sleeping bag as he ate as much as he could of the only meal he'd had the entire day. He didn't talk until he was finished, and even then remained tight lipped and painfully hesitant.

"It's okay to tell them," Ronon said, not as permission, just as a reminder that it really was okay. Teyla scooted her chair next to Sheppard's to put her arm around his bony shoulders since he was still shaking.

Then, John talked. "The reason... I couldn't save Anja..." It wasn't detailed, but it didn't need to be. Anja had died because he fought. His tormentor died because he'd given in. There had been no winning situations and wise choices, only paths that had all led to the same place.

Everyone listened without saying a word, including McKay, who was pale and open-mouthed in horror by the end.

"I didn't mean to," John said.

Teyla pulled him in closer. "We know."

Rodney cleared his throat, straightening. "Damned if you do, damned if you don't. You know?"

John nodded. The second telling had been just as tiring as the first, and Sheppard needed help getting back into the Jumper. They settled him first and then settled themselves after Ronon doused the fire. He was the last one to slip into his bag, but not before kneeling next to John and leaning in toward his ear to whisper.

"You didn't kill them, Sheppard. Doesn't matter what anyone else says. You didn't kill them."

Later in the night, John whimpered in his sleep.

At least he didn't wake up screaming.

TBC...

A/N: Hope that was satisfactory. As I said, it was the hardest chapter to write.


	26. Persistence in Calm Seas

A/N: I've been looking over past chapters posted, and would like to apologize for all the formatting issues (paragraphs running together, words running together, words that should be italicized but aren't, etc.) I do a quick once-over of the chapters before posting, and they are always fine. I may, at some point, go back and fix things as some of the formatting issues have screwed up what I was trying to achieve writing-wise, and it ticks me off (stupid anal formatting).

And yet even more thanks for the reviews.

Ch. 25

Persistence in Calm Seas

"I still feel like I did something wrong."

Kate regarded him, leaning forward with her chin resting on her fist. "Because you had wanted to do something. You're a man of action, John. You weren't able to act. I have the feeling, had you managed to find a way to escape, you would have made sure it involved being able to bring everyone with you."

John smiled what should have been an impossible combination of a shy and irreverent smirk. In the context of Sheppard having changed in some way since his confession during the team's camping trip two days ago, an outsider's opinion would be that he hadn't changed at all. He was still quiet, withdrawn, and comfortable only in the company of his team. He still took meals in his room rather than the mess, and reacted with the occasional flinch in response to sudden movements.

But there was a change, so subtle to be practically imperceptible until one actually took the time to look. For one, John was smiling more. Smiles that actually reached his eyes. And when he walked, it was straight backed with shoulders lifted rather than hunched as though literally bearing the weight of the world.

"I apologize in advance for how cliché this question is going to sound, but how do you feel, John?" Kate asked.

John shrugged. "Tired, actually. Not the 'I need a nap' kind of tired or anything. Just... tired – of all of it. Guessing and second guessing and wondering. Sometimes I just want my brain to shut off, just for ten minutes." He encompassed his head with the spread fingers of one hand. "There's always this damn debate going on in here and I'm sick of it."

"You still feel responsible for what happened to Anja on the hive," Kate stated.

To which John sharply replied in a flash of anger, "Because I am responsible. I talked to her I made friends with her kids. And I knew, I _knew_ what would happen if I did that. I knew they'd find out, I knew they'd use them against me..."

Kate straightened in her seat. "And you didn't try to stop this friendship from forming?"

John lowered his head to glare narrow-eyed at his now clasped hands hanging over his knees. "I told them not to talk to me."

"Did they listen?"

John shook his head. "It was kind of too late by then."

Kate clasped her own hands and nodded. "It's next to impossible to avoid forming bonds in situations like that. It would have happened sooner or later, John."

Sheppard grinned wryly. "Ronon said something like that, about what happened to Anja."

"And he's right. The wraith knew how to hurt you. If a bond had not been formed with Anja and her children then there would have been someone else. Even if you had let Vee'rana have her way with you, it would not have been over, and there would still come a situation or incident – even something as mundane as spilling a glass of water – where someone of innocence, whether a stranger or friend, would have been killed just for the sake of causing you pain."

John's features softened. "Ronon said something like that, too."

"Do you believe him?"

John's head bobbed in the affirmative, and then stopped. "A part of me doesn't want to."

"Because you still feel a need for punishment. Since the wraith aren't here, that leaves only you."

The Lt. Colonel smirked. He looked up, meeting her gaze, more open than she had ever seen him and one hundred percent willing to let it happen. She had a feeling that if she were to ask anything, anything at all – about his childhood, parents, and sorrows in his life – he would answer them with a weary smile and no hesitation.

As much as she had always hoped he would reach that kind of a turning point in his life, it felt wrong and completely unethical to take advantage of it. Like he'd said, he was tired, physically and mentally, leaving him vulnerable and unaware of it. Ronon had told her, the other day, about Sheppard's breakdown. Confessions were like prolonged thirst. Quench it and the satisfaction of killing that thirst made the body demand more. Drink too much and the body became sick. Get one problem off your chest and you wanted to get them all off your chest. Sometimes it wasn't a bad thing, sometimes it was.

In Sheppard's case, as much as Kate wanted him to let others in with a lot more ease, it needed to happen at his invitation and not because he'd left a mental door unlocked. She knew he would prefer to keep certain things to himself.

"Colonel," Kate said, easing back into the seat of the chair. "I can tell you that, without a doubt, everything and anything that happened on that hive ship was not your fault. I hope you're able to realize this one day. If not, I at least ask that you eventually forgive yourself. Allow yourself to live your life. Which, I know, is not going to be an easy thing to get back to. But I had an idea while you were away of something that might help. You're a man of action, Colonel, and you need preoccupation. I've discovered that, sometimes, when overwhelmed by our own problems, it helps to step outside ourselves by doing something for others."

John raised an eyebrow. "Charity work?" He lifted his casted wrist that was going to have to remain bound for another week. "I don't think the doc's going to clear me for pruning fields on the mainland."

Kate smiled. "I was thinking something more along the lines of here in Atlantis. I've already talked to Dr. Weir and she has the perfect job in mind."

------------------------------------

Glorified taxi service is what Rodney called it. The Atlantis military commander reduced to chauffeur. Since that had been John's lot in life before deciding to take it easy in an alien chair, he really didn't care what anyone called it.

He called it freedom. Just him, an alien ship and the open sky.

"You don't really miss those days, do you?" Rodney asked. He was practically present for every flight. Number one being he no longer had as much faith in the jumpers. Number two, unspoken, he was keeping an eye on John. Sheppard figured as much from the way Rodney kept tossing not-so-surreptitious glances his way.

John shrugged. It was a good question. "Depends on what my week is like. Or month. Or couple of months."

"Uh-huh. So what about now?"

Again John merely graced him with a non-committal shrug. "I haven't really thought about those days much." Which was the truth his mind was, and still was, rather occupied. There'd been other times, though, other bad days or months that made him question if sitting in that chair had been worth it. The voice doing the questioning was just as condescending as the one that insisted on him being a selfish SOB. He'd been content in his one-track responsibility of pick up and drop off.

Content and happy, however, weren't necessarily the same thing. He'd enjoyed the lack of crap that came with not being in a war zone, but hadn't been too fond of the inactivity between runs. On Atlantis...

He loved Atlantis. Hell, he even loved his responsibilities. And he loved that he hadn't hit a going-nowhere rut after all. But he hated the broader spectrum of consequences when it came to screwing up. Looking back on some of those consequences still made him physically sick.

"So you're not eager to go back to them or anything, are you?" Rodney asked.

"Not really," he replied honestly. Going back to square one would be like giving in to denial, pretending all of this hadn't happened, and he wouldn't do it. If he ever did go back to Earth, whether because he was ordered to or by choice, it was either early retirement for him or back to a war zone. He wasn't going to pick up where he'd left off.

Not that he wanted to go back to Earth. There wasn't much there for him anyways. On the other hand, as of late, he'd been starting to wonder if he could never reach the point of resuming duties, if he really couldn't trust himself to take care of everyone else, if he couldn't pick up where he'd left off in Atlantis...

He wasn't sure. He wasn't really sure of anything. They'd probably let him stay as an organic battery to keep the Ancient tech running, but if he couldn't even handle that much depending on how painful the memories of what once was were...

Damn it, this is why he hated thinking. Between the voice, the doubts, the what-ifs and guilt, he longed for a tangible off-switch to shut his own brain up. Because it was all a bunch of crap. He couldn't be sure of anything until he'd tried everything and couldn't take trying anymore. There was only one certainty, two, actually, after his little mental blow up turned talk with Ronon – the wraith sucked and this was all their fault. Giving up would mean they'd won. Obviously a little cliché, not that it lessened the truth of it.

John had been broken, so he had to be put back together.

The taxi service actually kind of helped. Flying kept his head clear, his thoughts focused, and it was basically as close to an off-switch as he was going to get. He ferried mostly science teams and a few marines to the mainland and, depending on how long they were going to stay, he ferried them back. Carson never liked him staying too long since he was still healing as well as preventing future ulcers

When not in the air, John went outside, standing in the center of a pier or balcony to stare up at the sky. It was spite, pure and simple, against himself, against his elevated heart-rate and the warnings screaming in his head. He kind of liked it. The surge of adrenaline, the way his muscles pulled and his heart fluttered. Kind of like being on a roller-coast just as it hit the apex before arching down into a drop. Closing his eyes and spreading his arms wide as though trying to embrace the world, were like the drop. It was losing his guard completely and the terror that surged made him want to laugh.

He loved it, actually loved it. It was exhilarating, pathetic and so damn ridiculous, just like everything else – crowds, being stared at, and the flinching. Going outside was easier to deal with and getting easier the more he went, the panic shuffling to the background with nothing to panic over. After all, he'd been taken in a field, not near the ocean. It took him long enough to realize that.

The crowds he handled in smaller increments, hovering outside the door to the mess, or unnoticed within the shadows of the rec room during some group's movie night. Invisible without being invisible, just watching and listening to everyday life. He measured progress by how long he lasted whether he left because he was noticed or because he was bored.

He still couldn't deal with the admiration he didn't deserve. But he caved, more than once, to requests that he take a seat and finish out the rest of the movie more comfortably. It was hard to refuse, let alone try and bolt, with that many hopeful gazes locked on him. Maybe he wasn't what they thought he was, but he didn't have to dash their morale because of it. He didn't deserve their respect. They, however, deserved his. It wasn't easy, although it was getting there.

_He _was getting there.

------------------------------------

Teyla unfolded from her final stretching maneuver like moving through water, which was exactly how she pictured it in her mind. Water, air, fire, earth: there was a movement for each and mental imagery enhanced it. Charin had taught her that back in their younger days when Teyla was just a child and Charin still had enough flexibility to demonstrate the stretches.

It also helped to think of Charin, usually in her younger years, sometimes older. Lately, the look on Charin's face in her mind was always a stern one.

Teyla wiped her face with the towel folded on her bag. Her door chimed and she tossed it on the bed, turning to face whoever entered.

"Come," she called.

The door slid open and John walked in dressed in his uniform without his vest, which meant he was going flying today. "Hey, Teyla. Just dropping by to see if you wanted to go to the mainland today or anything." He beamed at her, much like the old Sheppard, an excited child in a man's body although more subdued. His uniform looked loose on him. Well, more loose than usual.

Teyla smiled back turning to her woven basket where she kept her fresh clothes neatly folded. She crouched to rummage for something to change into after she bathed. "Not today, Colonel," she said.

Usually his response was a poorly concealed, disappointed, "Oh, okay," followed by him leaving. Not today, it seemed.

"You know, that's the tenth time you've said that."

Teyla slowed in her searching, waiting for what she knew was coming next while hoping it didn't come at all.

"Used to be – you know, before**--**" He cleared his throat. "Anyways, used to be that you were chomping at the bit to see you're people. Something up? They didn't, um, not make you there leader anymore, did they?"

Teyla turned her head, wondering if he was being serious. According to the worried look on his face, he was. She shook her head and resumed searching without really looking. "I am still there leader."

"Then why don't you want to go?" he asked.

Her skin twitched over tightening muscles. "Because I do not," she snapped more forcefully than intended.

There was an awkward moment of silence, then, "Oh. Okay. Maybe some other time."

Teyla listened to John's retreating footsteps almost to the door, debating whether to stop him, apologize, tell him the truth or just let him keep walking.

"Seriously, Teyla, is something wrong?"

Teyla jumped at the abrupt intrusion of John's voice into her thoughts. She hadn't even realized he'd stopped. Glancing over her shoulder showed her John standing with his back to the door, hands in his pockets, expression anxious with a furrowed brow. His concern made him seem so vulnerable but in a rather endearing way that made it difficult to brush him off a second time.

Teyla had no idea how she was going to explain it to him, even if it had been a long time in coming. She rose, smoothing out the loose skirt she wore during her stretches.

"It is," she began, "complicated."

John's right eyebrow arched upward. "Complicated how?"

"Well," Teyla replied, wandering to the nearest candle to snuff it out. Not that it was necessary, she simply did not wish to stand still. "It is... very complicated."

"You said that. Did you do something against one of your customs? Did you get in a fight with Halling? Come on, it can't be that complicated, nothing ever is."

"It involves you," Teyla blurted. "And..." She turned to him, pressing her hands together imploringly. "My people do not know that you are alive." There, she said it, and the expected look of shock froze Sheppard's features.

John blinked. "O-Kay? And why not?"

Teyla's shoulders bowed. "Because I am still uncertain as to what I should tell them. There is a belief, an old belief, that you only escape the wraith because you have been tainted by them in some way. I do not know if that belief still exists... I am concerned how my people may react to... to what had happened to you."

Again John stared, then blinked. "Oh."

Teyla sank down onto the edge of her bed and John joined her. They sat in uncomfortable silence.

"They're going to find out eventually," John said. He winced after he said it, though Teyla was not sure why, and then added under his breath, "Everyone finds out one way or another."

"True," Teyla said.

"This really isn't like you," John said. "Not that I'm accusing you of anything. It's just that you've never let anything come between you and your people. I mean, yeah, you've had your differences and what ruler and...um... _rulee_ doesn't. But... I don't know this just isn't you. This lack of _trust_ in them."

Teyla flinched, John's statement cutting cold. The truth was always harsh, painful, and Teyla's pain had registered by the way Sheppard suddenly panicked.

"Oh, no, no, no, I didn't mean... You trust your people, of course you trust them..."

Teyla shook her head, bewildered, but more than that contrite. "No, John, you are right. That is exactly what it is. But," she swallowed, "I will also admit to fear, for you."

"What, will they stone me to death or something if you tell them?"

"They may not treat you fairly," Teyla said. "Even after all you have done for us, they may ask me to ban you from our village. They may want nothing more to do with you, your people, Atlantis. They could very well wish to leave fearing the wraith might come. It is difficult to say how they will react."

Sheppard's shoulders bowed. It made him seem smaller and world-weary, and Teyla did not like seeing it.

"Good point," he said. He then gave her an apologetic grimace. "But they will find out eventually."

Teyla nodded. "Yes, they will."

"Better to take the initiative then let it be an accident. They'll be more pissed if they end up finding out the hard way."

Teyla sighed heavily. Sheppard made excellent points and would keep making excellent points because he was right.

It felt like a mere instant later that she was in the co-pilot's seat of a Jumper, just her, John, and Dr. Beckett who was coming to check on the health of a pregnant woman. Sheppard landed the Jumper a little ways out from the village. He stayed with the ship while Teyla and Carson headed into the settlement. They were quiet the entire way, making Teyla wonder if Carson knew what was going on, or if he was simply aware that this was not a good time for talk.

It became obvious before they parted when he mouthed 'good luck' to her. Teyla stood there letting her gaze wander, taking in the settlement and the people passing. Nothing had changed much, yet she had expected everything to be so different as to be almost alien to her. She was broken from her trance when people stopped to greet her, happy that she was here, telling her that it felt like ages since they had seen her.

It took a while but she managed to force herself toward Halling's tent. She paused just outside the flap, breathing deep a fortifying breath smelling of wood smoke. This shouldn't have been so hard. It felt almost ridiculous the amount of energy it was taking just to convince herself to enter. She was a leader, accustomed to conflict, even opposition. She'd had to face it down since that leadership had been passed to her at a very tender age. She had been questioned, doubted, challenged. So why was this so much different?

Teyla took another cleansing breath before she reached out to pull back the flap.

The flap opened before she had a chance to do it herself and Halling stepped out. He jerked back to keep from colliding with her and froze, wide-eyed. "Teyla?" Then he smiled. "It has been so long since you've come by. Please--" he swept the flap aside making room for Teyla to enter, "--come in."

Teyla stepped out of the bright-white warm midday and into the cool shade of a lamp-lit tent, with its woven baskets, clay pots, stacks of animal skins in one corner, wooden shelves which could be taken apart cluttered with food-stuffs and hand-made crafts, and skin and blanket covered cots at the far end. Everything smelled of wood and the lingering spice of cooked food and incense candles. Halling went to the clay stove in the center of the dwelling and put on a kettle. "Jinto is out hunting with friends. Although he should not be much longer. He will be most excited to see you."

Teyla smiled sincerely. She hoped to see Jinto. The last she had seen of him, he was nearly as tall as she. "Has he grown any more?"

Halling beamed proudly. "Much. I am starting to suspect he may very well end up as tall as Ronon. He hopes to be able to join one of the Atlantean exploration teams." His smile weakened, turning melancholy but fond. "He still plays wraith and Lantean."

"As Colonel Sheppard?" Teyla had to ask.

"Yes. He still believes Sheppard may come back..."

The words penetrated like a bullet and Teyla slammed her eyes shut with a quiet groan. She wasn't sure if she could do this.

"Teyla?"

She opened her eyes to Halling's worried face staring at her. "Teyla, are you all right?"

Teyla forced on a strained smile. "I am fine."

"Are you sure?" Halling pressed. "For a moment you seemed ill."

Teyla's smile started to ache. "I am well, I assure you."

Apparently unconvinced, Halling simply nodded then turned back to the heating kettle.

Now or never. Now or prolong it and possibly make matters worse. Heart pounding, Teyla rose. "Halling, may I ask you something?"

Halling turned to her. "Of course."

She stepped stiffly forward. "Do you remember legends, or perhaps passages in the old texts, of... of those who returned after being taken by the wraith?"

Halling pressed his lips into a straight line before replying. "I have. It was said that the taken who return always bring the wraith."

Teyla's insides tried to tie themselves into complicated knots. "Do all the legends say the same? Were there any that talked of... happier reunions?"

Halling rolled his eyes upward pensively, thought for a moment, then pursed his lips and shook his head. "No, none that I have heard. Why?"

"How were they treated, the returned?" Teyla pressed on.

"They were driven away. Why? Teyla, what is this about?"

Teyla turned, pacing, rubbing her suddenly aching eyes with the tips of her fingers. "This is difficult," she muttered, then stopped letting her arms drop to her sides. She supposed, since she had come this far and kindled Halling's concerns, she might as well finish it.

"Colonel Sheppard is alive."

A silence so thick, so encompassing that even the noises from outside could not break it, filled the tent to stifling.

"Alive?" Halling said reluctantly as though afraid to shatter that silence.

Teyla nodded curtly. She felt a hand on her shoulder, but did not look up to meet her friend's gaze.

"How? How is this...? How?"

"He was left behind," said Teyla. "With others. Worshipers of the wraith and slaves of the wraith. The wraith ship was under attack. The queen and all aboard escaped. The humans were left on a planet." She finally turned to look up at her old friend. "He did not escape. But neither was he released for any purpose against us. The wraith hate John Sheppard. They tortured him. They did terrible things to him and then left him to die. It was by mere chance that we were able to find him and save him. He has been through so much and I did not tell because I was afraid – I _am_ afraid... of how he may be received."

She looked at Halling imploringly. "How will he be received? If he is to be treated like an enemy then I'd rather we keep what I have told you between us. He has been hurt enough and I do not want him to have to go through any more pain. If I have to keep it all a secret, I will. I am sorry but I cannot... I... I cannot see him hurt anymore."

Teyla tried to turn away and step back not wanting to see Halling's reaction. Two large hands settled firmly on her shoulders keeping her in place.

"Teyla."

As much as she didn't want to witness his reaction, Teyla looked at Halling having never avoided another's gaze when it mattered. The soft understanding in Halling's eyes relieved her.

"Teyla, it is all right, I understand. Although I wish you had told me sooner, the reasoning behind your fear is sound. I trust in your trust of Colonel Sheppard."

Which actually didn't help it stung worse after the trust she had refused to show. If Halling realized this, he did not show it.

"Times are not as they once were" Halling continued "And who is left alive to swear of the old legends' truths?" He touched his forehead to Teyla's before moving back to the kettle. "I do not disagree with your concern, however."

"What do you suggest?" Teyla asked.

"Telling the others of Colonel Sheppard, but not yet. You should prepare, first. Ready the words you will say and be prepared for those who still retain the old prejudices. But you must trust us, Teyla. If you say Colonel Sheppard is untainted, they will believe you."

Teyla closed her eyes against pin-pricks of guilt and tenacious uncertainty. "Why should they show trust in me when I did not show trust in them?" she said, mostly to herself. She opened her eyes. "Why was this so hard, Halling? Why did I not just trust?"

It was Halling, this time, who did the looking away. "I may have given you reason not to trust. You asked me to wait to perform the ceremony for Colonel Sheppard and I did not."

"You were within your rights," Teyla said.

"But you are my leader. Above that you were grieving as I have not seen you grieve since your father died. I thought that, perhaps, the ceremony would offer the same comfort to you now as it had then. Except my haste to see the colonel's soul into the next realm had blinded me to your needs." He smiled ruefully. "And now, as you say, Sheppard is returned and alive."

Halling looked over at her, serene yet contrite. "For what I did, Teyla, I am sorry."

Teyla smiled. "And you are forgiven. Actually, I believe you have been forgiven for some time, now. But I do not think it explains why this was so hard. It should not have been a matter of choosing between John and my people."

Halling gave her a knowing grin. "Friendship, Teyla. You were simply trying to protect your friend."

"I still should not have to choose between them."

"But you did not," Halling sagely explained. "Or you would not be here, now."

"It was Colonel Sheppard who convinced me to come."

Halling kept on smiling. "Then there was nothing to choose."

-------------------------------

"Well?" John asked when Teyla entered the jumper.

She did not answer out loud but instead did the thumbs-up the Lanteans were so fond of.

John grinned at her. "Now that wasn't so bad, was it?"

Teyla dropped into the seat next to his. "No, it was not."

----------------------------------------

The miniature electric saw whined cutting through the plaster of the cast like it was butter. He had fought, for a month and a half, the urge to stick a pencil up the thing to scratch too many itches and now he was free to use his fingernails. When a seam was made, Carson set the saw aside to pry the two halves apart. The plaster split with a hollow cracking sound The cotton fibers in the gauze ripped and threads stuck to Sheppard's skinbleached white as compared to the rest of his flesh.

"There we are, then," Carson said, dropping the halves into a metal tray. "Free at last. Sort of." He patted the skin with a cloth, rubbed in a bit of lotion, and finally applied the Ace bandage around the wrist. "You're still not to be sparring with it."

"I know," John said. He tried flexing his wrist, wincing at the pull of unused muscles.

"I wouldn't move it too much," Carson said, "or lift with it. It's going to be a bit tender, especially after physical therapy starts."

John nodded, rubbing the joint. His wrist was the last of his body still betraying him. Daily walks had advanced to daily jogs that were getting him back toward daily runs. And just because he couldn't spar didn't mean he couldn't use the sticks. The slow-motion moves Teyla had been showing him felt a little Karate Kid but the strength needed to maintain that kind of fluidity was giving him back some muscle in his arms. The right arm more than the left, obviously. With increasing muscle mass came an increase of appetite adding weight that turned into more muscle. He wasn't back to his original weight. He was back to a healthy enough weight in terms of nutrients to keep Carson from harping on him. John's ribs were still conspicuously visible although that didn't make him a light-weight. Maybe compared to Ronon, except that might have always been the case... due to _height_ differences.

"I'm just happy to have the damn thing off," John said,

"Aye, I'd imagine." Beckett strapped the blood pressure cuff around the previously casted arm. "So, all in all, how've you been feeling?"

"Better now that you let me exercise." The cuff inflated pinching John's arm.

"How have you been sleeping?"

"I still have nightmares."

Carson jotted down the numbers and then peeled the cuff off in a rip of Velcro. "How bad?"

"Sometimes they wake me up," John replied. "But not like they used to. No screaming, no freaking out, no backing into corners. And most of the time I can get back to sleep."

"Most," Carson restated.

John nodded. "Most."

Carson smiled and patted his arm. "It's an improvement, even if it doesn't look it. If it gets to be too much trouble I can prescribe something to help you sleep. Nothing along the lines of sleeping pills, I know how much you hate those. A heavy muscle relaxant should do the trick since it's not so much a matter of getting you to sleep but to stay asleep."

"I'm willing to try."

Beckett twitched his head back with a blink of surprise. "Really?"

Sheppard hooded his eyes. "Really. I'm trying to get back on my own two feet, Doc. I'll take what I can get if it'll help me."

"Smart lad," said Carson. "And for the record, you're doing a fine job of it, Colonel. Even Kate has said as much. I think you'll find yourself stepping through the gate in no time."

John said nothing to that. He was still indifferent toward the prospect and, right now, more focused on getting physically healthy.

Carson gave John the okay to head out and he did just that. He veered in the direction of the mess intent on grabbing lunch. Getting his own food was about as far as he went when it came to the mess hall. He still wasn't up to dealing with crowds where people came to him asking too many questions. Although he had to wonder if it was more along the lines of him having taken a liking to eating in his room more than the curious crowds. Lunch and a movie on his laptop was a little more ideal to lunch in a crowded room trying to talk above everyone else just to be heard by the person across from you.

At least he'd finally stopped flinching, except when it came to certain gesticulations. That was going to take longer to get used to.

Alarms shrilled mechanically. John froze a split second before whipping around on his heels to take off at a run for the Gate Room. He arrived just as the wormhole finished establishing. He joined Elizabeth in the control room where Chuck watched the computer screen waiting for an IDC.

Instead, the com crackled.

"Atlantis? This is Staff Sgt. Ramirez with a situation."

Elizabeth nodded for Chuck to open the com. "What's the situation, Sergeant?"

There was a moment of silence, then "Ma'am, you are totally not going to believe this. We just captured ourselves a wraith, ma'am. A queen."

Johns' heart thudded hard. _No way. No freakin way._

"A wraith queen?" Elizabeth said, crossing her arms.

"Yes ma'am. A queen, one drone and a human female."

John's legs tried to buckle out from under him. He had to lock his knees to keep upright. _No, no, no, no..._

"They just up and surrendered to us, ma'am," Ramirez continued. "Said they wanted to talk."

It was getting hard to breathe; the room felt smaller than it actually was. John inched closer to the console. "Sergeant? This is Colonel Sheppard. The human, the woman. She didn't happen to give you a name, did she?"

"No sir."

"Could you ask her for it? If she doesn't answer tell her... tell her that Sheppard's doing the asking."

"Yes sir."

More silence.

"John," Elizabeth began. John stalled her with a raised hand.

Two minutes later, "She says her name is Kee – Keevana. Ki'vana. Her name's Ki'vana."

TBC...

A/N: Bet you didn't see that coming. If you did, then I need to work harder on my surprise cliffhangers.


	27. Riddle me This, McKay

A/N: Great news! The final chapters have been beta'd. Which means... Daily postings!

Ch. 26

Riddle me this, McKay

Time stopped and the world went intangible like the bottom had dropped out, leaving John free-floating. All noise was static except for the solid bass thump of his heart.

_No, no, no, no, no..._

He held his breath, waiting for the inevitable gasp and upright bolt of waking sweat-drenched from just another nightmare.

This usually didn't happen until a feeding hand slammed into his chest.

"...no darts in the immediate area. It was like she was just waiting here. She says she's been looking for us, has some vital information we need to know. But she'll only talk to Colonel Sheppard."

John jolted, his heart slamming in one hard beat that vibrated the ribs covering it. He gasped, "What?"

Elizabeth, brow bunched, tilted her head. "Say again?"

"The queen said," repeated the sergeant, "that if Colonel Sheppard happened to be alive and back with his people that he was the one she wanted to talk to. No one else. Her words exactly."

John didn't have to see it to know that every eye was turned his way. He could feel each gaze as individual as the face in which it belonged to, burning holes in him with silent demands to know what the hell was going on. Like he had all the answers. Like he had seen this coming, or should have.

Like he was in on it.

No, that was just him being paranoid...

"John?" Elizabeth said. There was no suspicion in her voice, only worry.

John flinched sucking in short breath. "Kill her," he said. "You here me, Staff Sergeant? I want you to turn around, march your ass back there and kill that bitch right now! Bullet between the eyes..."

"Colonel Sheppard!" Caldwell firmly barked. "Sergeant, belay that order. Col. Sheppard..."

"Sergeant, do it now!"

"Sergeant, do not listen to him he is not the one in command."

"Damn it, Caldwell, it's not a matter of command. You need to kill her and you need to do it now!"

Caldwell's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Major Lorne, please escort Colonel Sheppard out of the control room."

Lorne, nervous and bewildered, took a hesitant step toward his former CO when Elizabeth's arm shot out, stopping him. "Stand down, Major. John, you need to calm down."

Sheppard took a stiff step back shaking his head and stabbing a rigid finger at the console. "I am not talking to her, I am not talking to that bitch!"

"I don't think you have much of a choice in this, Colonel," Caldwell calmly but firmly stated, earning him a vicious glare from Elizabeth.

"Colonel Caldwell..."

"Dr. Weir," he said, again with that infuriating calm. "With all due respect we have a wraith queen in custody, and if she does have vital information like she claims then we cannot let that slip through our fingers because of paranoia."

Rage and disgust burned like magma through John's blood until he shook. "Paranoia?" he spat, gritting his teeth so hard it was a miracle they didn't break. "You think I'm being freakin' paranoid? The very same wraith witch who left me for dead manages to find our people and asks for me directly and you think I'm being paranoid!"

Elizabeth touched his arm. "John..."

Sheppard snatched it out of her reach and backed toward the hall. "Don't touch me. I'm not talking to her. You need to kill her, you hear me? _Right_ _now_." He turned on his heels striding ardently from the room.

Beyond the control room he picked up the pace, faster and fasteruntil finally breaking into a run before anyone had a chance to catch up with him. There was no real destination in his mind but his feet knew where to go. Anxiously, he stepped into his room, letting the door slide shut behind him He palmed the lock, collapsed back against the door, and slid to the floor.

John couldn't breathe. His chest was too tight, his throat constricted, his heart thrashing like a wild animal in a cage. Cold sweat formed a solid sheen on his skin until he was shivering even in his long-sleeved shirt. How the hell could this be possible? He honestly thought he could hear the cosmos laughing at him, slapping backs in congratulations for a joke well played because no way could irony be this cruel. He continued to wait for the moment when he finally woke up, like pulling the trigger over and over when the clip was empty.

Sheppard thumped his head back against the door, shoving aside the sudden urge to run and just keep running. Hop into a puddle jumper and fly away to wherever. The destination didn't matter just as long as it was anywhere but here. Fly away and keep on flying, cloaked and hidden from the universe for the rest of his life.

He honestly didn't know if he could take this anymore. Everything he struggled to reclaim-- the crawling and scrounging for every shred of contentment, sense of safety, of normality, of self – was gone. Just like that. Quicker than a blink or a heartbeat, from the moment Ramirez had said Ki'vana's name, the room felt too big, him too small, and Morticia's presence all around him.

_Little one._

This was supposed to be the part where he curled up on the floor to sob like a baby. However, it took a lot more to make John Sheppard cry. He opted for laughing because, frankly, it was the only other reaction he had to play. Softly at first, an airy cackle at the back of his throat bubbling up into his mouth to a high-pitch, and going on hysterical. He thumped his head on the door over and over, slapping his palm on the floor, busting a gut with the cosmos. He had to admit, it was rather funny.

But laughter was exhausting, as was the stress of knowing an old enemy was looking for you. John stopped abusing the back of his skull and dropped his head forward to press his forehead into his knees. He didn't sleep, not even a light doze, and just stared into the darkness in an attempt to fathom what the hell just went wrong.

He was being punished. That was the only way he could figure it. Punished for trying to get his life back rather than wallow in guilt over the things he had done. This was judgment for blaming the wraith. John imagined it would be just like the wraith to turn everything they did back around on their victims. Laying the blame on them, not simply to torture, but because they honestly believed they were never in the wrong.

He was definitely being punished.

Maybe... maybe he had been right from the start. Maybe he had been compromised. Maybe, just maybe, the queen had done something that had created a permanent link between her and him. Like the death dream thing, a connection that distance couldn't hinder. So everything he had seen, she had seen, and so she knew where to find him.

John closed his eyes. _Knew it. I warned them. I knew it._

Which meant that pretending he was dead was out of the question--

--except... except she had said _if_ he happened to be alive--

--unless she was playing with him.

John squeezed his eyes shut as though it would actually block out his own thoughts.

A timid knock at his door made him flinch and snap them back open.

"Colonel?" It was Rodney. "Hey, uh, Sheppard? Are you in there? Well of course you're in there or your door wouldn't be locked. Look, I'm not going to bypass your lock so do you think you could open the door?"

John sighed He was so tired he was surprised he hadn't fallen asleep yet. "Not really."

"Why not?"

"Don't want to yet."

"Okay," Rodney said sounding reasonable. "I can respect that. It's just that there're a lot of people out here who kind of want to talk to you."

John didn't respond to that.

"Sheppard?"

"Yeah?" John croaked.

"Just making sure you were still there."

John lifted his head and wrinkled his brow. He could never tell if Rodney's rarely seen obtuse moments were an attempt at being funny or an actual rarely seen obtuse moment.

There was a minute of muffled, rather frantic-sounding conversation on the other side. Elizabeth's voice, Caldwell, Rodney, and a few other people. Lovely, just freakin' lovely. He had himself an audience.

"Sheppard?"

"Still here."

"Kind of figured that. Listen, as much as we appreciate your show of passive resistance as a form of protest, I'm afraid I have to break it to you that you're coming across as just a _tad _teenage girl throwing a temper tantrum right now."

John rolled his eyes, tilting his head back against the door. "I am neither protesting nor pouting, McKay. I'm just taking a personal moment, here, because a few minutes ago I was informed that the wraith who..." he swallowed trying to moisten his suddenly parched throat. When he spoke again, his strained voice cracked, "who did some very unpleasant things to me has just dropped in and wants to have a one on one chat with the guy she swore she was going to keep for the rest of his abnormally drawn-out days. So excuse me for wanting a little privacy during my freak out."

Silence, then more muffled conversation a little less muffled than before.

"The wraith queen caught is the one that... uh... you know?"

"Tortured him?" Elizabeth. "Yes, Rodney."

More silence broken by a rather nasty expletive from McKay, then, "Yes, I see why you would value your privacy at a moment like this. But you really can't stay in there forever."

"I just need a moment, McKay."

The muffled conversation returned in hushed whispers, though John thought he caught the words, "Let me talk to him. Alone. He's never going to come out with you hovering."

"Sheppard?"

"Yes Rodney?"

"Just wanted to let you know everyone backed off. You have your space."

John allowed himself a tentative smile of appreciation. "Thanks McKay."

"Listen, um, before I go... I have no idea what you must be thinking and feeling and stuff right now, and I won't try to imagine it or anything. Totally pointless. But I'm pretty sure there's a lot of stuff going through your head, a lot of confusion. Lots of... stuff. Anyways, just so you know, we're here for you and all. Damn it, Sheppard, are you all right? Or, more appropriately, are you going to be all right? I wasn't the one taken by the wraith and even I'm finding this a little freaky. Just, please, for the love of everything, don't let any of this make you go off the deep end again. And I'm not saying that just because the second time would _not_ be a charm. You're home, you're safe, there's no reason to, and if you think about it logically..."

Think. In a single move John twisted around rolling to his feet while slapping the controls to the door. He was standing when the doors slid open to a very befuddled McKay kneeling on the floor. After a moment of gaping slack-jawed, Rodney pushed himself upright.

"Um," he stammered, "Hi?"

John grabbed Rodney by the shoulder of his jacket and pulled him in, then thought the door shut and stepped back. "I don't want to think about it, McKay," he said, well aware of the strain in his voice and not caring. "So think for me. What the hell is going on? Why is she back?"

Rodney morphed from baffled to slightly frightened. "What? How the hell should I know! Oh, crap, you're not handling this well, are you?" He groaned, dropping his face into his hands. "Oh no. No, no, no. After everything we did just to get you to _talk_ to us..."

The panic drained from John. Not the confusion, or the fear and anger that lingered under the surface, just the excess of all of it preventing clearer thought. Morticia had found some of their people. She hadn't found Atlantis, she wasn't here, now. And unless she really was playing head games or the marines told her other wise, she didn't know whether or not he was alive.

It was funny how a distraught physicist with pessimistic issues could put things into perspective. Kate was right – it helped if you could find a way to step out of yourself for a moment.

"Rodney," John said, interrupting McKay's bemoaning.

The physicist looked up to give him a suspicious look but didn't say anything.

"I'm freaked, all right?" John said. "And I'm not going to lie to your face by saying that I'm fine. I will, however, live. Although, I'd live a lot happier and probably sleep better if someone would just listen to me and put a damn bullet in that..." he clenched his fists forcing back the swear-filled rant about to burst from his throat. He didn't continue until his heart finally stopped jack-hammering. It left him even more exhausted than before this all started, so that his shoulders stooped and his hands dangled loosely at his sides. "What do I do, Rodney?"

McKay's head reared back in alarm. "You're asking me?"

John started to pace, rubbing his face with both hands. "What if this is a set-up? What if this was the whole reason she let me go? What if this is a trap, for all of us, or she's pissed and trying to get me back?" He slid his hand over his temples and around his head to lace his fingers across the back of his skull.

"Well," Rodney said, clasping his hands behind his back, "though you have a few valid points, you need to look at this logically. If this were a trap, she has a small team of very security-knowledgeable marines within her mind-bending grasp. And why just have you when she could have all of us?"

John shrugged. "Because she hates me more?" He shook his head. "No, you're right. But you don't know this queen, Rodney. She's not like other wraith. She's patient. She had me for a whole two months and never once tried to get inside my head to rip stuff out. She knew my weaknesses and exploited them just to watch me squirm. She's smart, Rodney. Smart and... _weird_. So when I say we need to put a bullet in her head, _then we need to put a bullet in her head ten minutes ago._"

"Without hearing what she has to say?" Rodney asked.

John gave him a piercing look that he let say it all.

McKay stiffened, raising his chin in that manner when he was trying to hide that he was nervous. "Okay, then." Silence. "But you want to hear, don't you." It was a statement.

John stopped. He did, actually. He wanted to defy everything she had done to him, all that she had reduced him to, and play her game to the bitter end. He wanted freedom from all the "what-ifs" no matter the consequences.

It was the consequences that divided him. It wouldn't be just him and the queen. It would be him, the marines guarding her, and whoever else decided to tag along. Knowing his team, it would be them, and if the queen had something up her sleeve then John didn't want them in the cross-fires of another stupid decision.

Sheppard dropped his hands to his side. "What do you think I should do, McKay?"

"Hear her out," he said. "And if you don't like what she says, then but a bullet between her eyes."

Again, Rodney had a point. Morticia had surrendered willingly, which meant she really did have nothing to lose since any one of those marines could have shot her. And if she knew John as well as she certainly seemed to and believed or at least suspected that he lived, then she believed just as much that there was a good chance he wouldn't hesitate to kill her. It was a whole lot of risk.

So it was either one hell of a trap, or one hell of a piece of information. Either way, they needed to find out. Morticia was too smart not to have back-up plans in case the first trap failed, and it was never smart to pass up intel.

John turned to Rodney. "McKay, if I decide to go, I want you to do me a favor."

Rodney narrowed his eyes. "What?"

Smart man. "Don't come with me."

McKay's eyes widened and his mouth dropped open to protest when John halted him with a raised hand. "Just humor me on this one, please?" He'd been doing too much begging lately, but would get on his knees and plead if he had to. "If it's a trap, I don't want you guys there. I can't..." he sighed, rubbing the space between his eyes that was starting to ache. "If you think watching Anja get punished screwed me up, wait'll something happens to one of you because I decided to show that witch up."

Rodney's expression eased. "Fine. And despite knowing that you're going to hate this – either Ronon or Teyla goes with you. Preferably Ronon."

John dropped his hand hard enough to slap his thigh. "McKay...!"

"No, Colonel. If you go you're going with the best back-up you can have. It's a two-way deal, Sheppard, simple as that. You want peace of mind about our safety? Well, we want peace of mind about your safety. You're thinking about confronting the wraith who nearly tortured you clean out of your sanity. What's not to get high-blood pressure over? So let us have a little assurance by one of us being there."

John stared at Rodney, wanting to protest. Rodney stared back readying return protests. It was a win/lose situation. For both to have a little peace, they were going to have to put up with a little worry.

But that was life in a nutshell. You can't have one without the other.

"Fine," John wearily acquiesced.

Rodney lifted his chin. "Fine. And I'm sorry, Sheppard. You're looking out for us, I know, but we can't take the chance of losing you again. I doubt it'll be pretty if that happens."

"No," John said with a sad smile, "it won't."

-----------------------------------------

Elizabeth must have had a long chat with Caldwell while John was hold up trying to keep himself together. Although the Colonel wasn't particularly apologetic or understanding (from a military standpoint, he couldn't be blamed, and John didn't blame him with so much possibly at stake) he was agreeable to keeping Sheppard's survival a secret just to see how it played out.

First thing's first. Poor Carson, being a gene carrier and a veritable sharp-shooter with an Ancient medical scanner, was sent through first engulfed in a small contingent of marines. When it was confirmed neither the queen nor any of those with her were packing transmitters on or within any bodily orifice, Teyla followed after.

John wasn't particularly happy about that arrangement, even with the consolation that she had no intentions of going anywhere near the queen. If there were more wraith nearby, Teyla would know.

"It is not a matter of being able to discern numbers," she had once told them a while back, during a time when she was coming to better understand her abilities. "The more the wraith, the stronger their presence to me, like a greater weight on my mind."

That much mental shoving would be rather heavy. She said it was why she had sensed the wraith hiding in Atlantis without really knowing what it was. A single wraith, especially one trying for incognito, she said was like a flickering shadow while a squadron was more a smothering darkness.

It was an hour before Teyla returned with a certainty that no other wraith had followed the queen to the Alpha site. A jumper was sent after her return to keep watch from orbit in case a hive ship decided to pop in another hour later. It might take hard means to learn a lesson, but learned it was.

With the coast as clear as it was going to get, it was Lorne's turn to shine. The plan was to start small, see who the queen was willing to talk to. It hadn't even been thirty minutes when his second, Cpl. Higgins, stepped through the gate meeting his superiors at the bottom of the stairs.

"Major Lorne's still talking to her, sirs," he said. "He keeps insisting Col. Sheppard is dead and she keeps asking to see him. She says she wants some kind of proof that he's gone."

Rodney snorted. "I'm pretty sure someone has a few pictures from the funeral. Think those will do?"

"Major Lorne thinks it's just a matter of waiting her out," Higgins continued.

Unfortunately for the major, this meant they would be waiting for a long, long time. Morticia knew he was alive and, still thinking logically now that he was able to think, it had nothing to do with some mysterious connection she'd established with him. Morticia was thinking just as logically. And, logically, since she had left John alive, it stood to reason that there was a good chance he was still alive. Being smarter, cautious, and a hell of a lot more patient than the average wraith, it also stood to reason that she could have sent a spy back to that planet to see what had become of her followers and little human pet.

So maybe she had left them with the intent of coming back for them after all.

There was only one way to find out.

"We don't need to wait her out," John said during their third conference of the day.

"Are you sure about this, John?" Elizabeth asked, uncertain herself.

John decided honesty the best policy. "Nope."

Fifteen minutes later saw him geared up and ready to go with Ronon following close behind. Higgins led the way through the gate and the woods to the Greek-like ruins that acted as the site's base of operations. Two marines stood guard outside an arched stone doorway mutilated by erosion. Outside the day was overcast, cool and muggy like after a good rain. Inside it was just plain muggy, smelling of mildew, making it unpleasant to breathe. Major Lorne pointed to a less nature-mutilated doorway to the right.

"She's in there, sir."

John nodded, unclipping his P-90 to hand off to Ronon, then his nine-mil passing it to Lorne. Evan looked from the gun to his CO. "You sure about this?"

John straightened, looking as presentable and hard-ass as he was going to get without being armed. He stared into the gray-shadowed room. "Colonel Caldwell wants her kept alive."

Lorne's eyebrows lifted high. "What if she attacks you?"

John looked at Ronon who smirked, lifting his blaster not set on stun to his shoulder. Sheppard smirked back. "Man, I hope she does."

They headed into the room lit by a single electric lamp and furnished with crappy plastic lawn chairs of the kind bought in bulk at dollar stores or Wal-Mart.

John stared at the female figure perched in the hot-pink chair like it was an ivory throne. "Morticia," he dead-panned.

Morticia rose like an uncoiling snake and simpered with a pout. "Little one, why do you not bow to me?"

TBC...


	28. Of Wraith and Men

A/N: Poor, tormented, confused John.

Ch. 27

Of Wraith and Men

The pout lasted a whole five seconds before breaking into a grin that could freeze red blood-cells. She was lucky, damn lucky, John was unarmed because he wanted nothing more than to blow that look clean of her putrid face. Flanking the queen on either side was a masked drone and Ki'vana, expressionless as always, though John thought he detected a hint of displeasure in her gaze.

"I always knew," Morticia said, "it would take so much more for you to die."

John narrowed his eyes acidly while his heart leaped frantically in his chest. He was sure she could hear it. "You had planned on coming back for us."

"I had preferred to keep all that I had acquired," Morticia casually replied.

"So what happened?"

The queen stood and wandered the small area of the room, keeping safe distance from Ronon who was twitching the fingers holding his weapon in a rather trigger-happy way.

"Matters did not turn out as planned," she said. "Setbacks had delayed my return."

John grinned maliciously. "Aw, did one of your daughters hit the teenage rebellion stage? I hear that can suck, especially when you give them a fully armed ship as a sweet sixteen present. Never a good idea to spoil your kids." His own fingers twitched and he curled them into a tight fist, nails biting into flesh to make up for the lack of a gun in his hand. He really wanted to shoot her, point-blank in the face, bullet exploding out the back to paint Ki'vana's face in liquid black. Taunts weren't cutting it. He needed her to cease existing.

"She has always been a willful child," said Morticia long-suffering, like a parent wondering where they'd gone wrong. "She did not take it lightly when I interrupted her feeding from you."

Phantom pain rippled down John's spine. He clenched his fists harder. "Cry me a river and drown in it. Did you send Ki'vana to fetch me for old time's sake?"

The queen paused, facing away to stare at the wall. "I had her return to learn of the fate of those I had left behind. I had not known the planet was still inhabited. Since you were not among the living, nor was there a grave with a marker bearing your name, that left only one conclusion. You lived and returned home."

So much for the wraith mind-melding theory. "You're getting to be predictable, Morticia."

The queen angled her head just enough to flash one narrow, slit-pupil eye at him. "Why do you call me that?" She sounded curious rather than annoyed, but then she'd always acted more human than wraith.

John shrugged shaking shoulders. "You call me little one; I call you Morticia. It's what us food call a fair deal." Anja's face flashed in his head: her timidly smiling face, her terrified face, her face twisted in agony as it shriveled tightening around her bones... He flicked his tongue over dry lips and swallowed against an equally dry throat. The amount of control it was taking not to rush forward and pound Morticia's face until it caved created fine tremors flitting through his hyper-tightened muscles. "What do you want?"

Morticia took a moment before responding. John took it as a pathetic power play until she turned around to face him. She looked more world-weary than she had on the hive ship. Tired but annoyed, pissed even. She walked with less sashaying to the pink chair and sat. It made it hard not to laugh at what she'd been reduced to. John normally wasn't a petty man, but to hell with being the better living being. Morticia deserved every little demeaning inconvenience that surrounded her.

"I have information I believe you might find... portentous," she said in all sobriety. "My ship as been destroyed. My hive killed protecting me. My most devout followers executed when captured during reconnaissance. During an attempt to claim another daughter's hive, it was discovered that one of my children has been keeping a very coveted secret. One of my worshipers managed to slip aboard her vessel while it was under repairs and obtain this secret. He succumbed to death the moment he passed the data into my hands."

Morticia held out her hand palm up for Ki'vana to drop what looked to be a small, clear data chip into it. "It is all here," she said. "Information on your world. The very coordinates they wished me to pull from your head. Within this information was a message from a queen who had obtained this precious knowledge by infiltrating the Lantean base by false alliance."

John's heart stuttered.

Morticia fingered the data like it was a useless poker chip. "It was sent to the nearest hive by the ship you call a dart. A last minute act of defiance against your people. It was meant to be shared with all. Instead, my daughter kept it to herself. She wants your planet and the sustenance it offers to be all hers. She is preparing to go there even now. As we speak, she is readying her ship, fitting it with the needed engines built from human schematics, repairing damages." She palmed the chip and leaned forward. "And I know where her ship hides."

Every molecule in John's body screamed at him to kill her. She was doing it again, establishing control, creating dominance. If they wanted the chevrons to the world where her daughter was getting herself prepped, then they were going to have to ask how high when Morticia told them to jump.

Actually, she'd probably just ask them to kneel.

There was a moment when John forgot everything Morticia had just said about Earth being in danger. A split second where his muscles coiled readying for the final strike that would bring that witch down. Launch forward, grab her by the throat, snap her neck. One simultaneous move of the kind Teyla and Ronon had taught him. It would be so damn easy that the image of it alone made his heart skip and skitter. The moment stretched gossamer thin until snapped when Ronon's hand landed heavy on John's shoulder. A glance in the taller man's direction let John know Dex was perfectly aware of where Sheppard's line of thought was going.

John blinked, startled and disgusted. It wasn't the desire to kill Morticia that shocked him. It was that, for no more than a few flutters of his heart, he'd been willing to sacrifice Earth's safety for the satisfaction of it.

Morticia really did know how to bring out the worst in him.

"What do you want in return?" John spat.

Morticia gave him an embittered smirk. "My daughter's hive ship if it were possible. Except it will be equipped with technology and data you'd rather not let any of my kind have. So I will settle for my daughter's demise. Or misery, whatever you happen to accomplish. It would also be wise if you take my servant, Ki'vana. Our ships are all of a similar construct so she will know her way around." Her caustic smile turned amused. "And I want you to go, little one. You will know the ship just as well. And the concept of you being the death of another queen is," her slit-pupil eyes narrowed, "_poetic_."

John's wound body was going to snap if he didn't get out of this room right now. "First we need to validate your claim."

Morticia passed the chip back to Ki'vana. "Of course."

Ki'vana tossed the chip that Ronon caught one-handed, slipping it into the pocket of his coat.

"I would say take your time," said Morticia, "but I do not think you have much left to waste. Repairs and additions were started four days ago and it takes six to complete repairs, sometimes less. And I do not recall which world I was on when I calculated the time."

_Bitch._

John backed out of the room before he would finally allow himself to turn his back on her. "Keep her here, Major," he growled. Lorne's reply was a curt nod. John's nine-mil and P-90 were returned to him so he could head out.

Sheppard left the chamber, back so stiff it hurt, heart pounding so hard he could feel it. He refused to run, forcing himself to take long, swift strides through the trees.

As soon as the temple was beyond sight and sound, John spun around slamming his fist into the sharp bark of the nearest trunk. "Son of a bitch!" then slammed his back into the tree behind him, sliding to the ground. Adrenaline and rage shook his body, soaking his skin in a cold sweat.

He was home, safe, with the ability to kill Morticia where she stood and she was still in a position to manipulate him. Losing him was neither an accident nor a plan it was a luxury she could afford. And until he finally put that hole in her head, she could keep on affording it.

John wasn't free. Never had been, really. Morticia was just that damn smart.

Ronon crouched beside him. "What do you think?"

John glared at the ground. "That this is one big-ass trap and we're screwed."

"Shouldn't we find out first, then give up?"

Sheppard couldn't fight a grin on that one – a tight, sharp grin that was hard to hold. "We have two very big possibilities here. One is that it's a trap and, for all I know, in the making the moment I was shoved into a cocoon. Morticia gets to know me well enough to figure I wouldn't dare pass up a potential threat to my home world. She releases me, hopes I get home. If I don't, no big loss because she has all the time in the galaxy to push for plan B. But I do get home, so she uses what she knows about me to get me and the rest of Atlantis to check out this threat. We go to the planet, get caught maybe, maybe not. Maybe all she needs us to do is check it out. I don't know, I'm just guessing here. Someone – a spy, Ki'vana – gets the address to Atlantis, plants tracking devices on us... enables it so she can track us back to Atlantis and from there have access to the only gate to Earth, which is a hell of a lot easier than putting up with the weeks it takes to get from Pegasus to our place. Just a stipulation but a damn good enough of one to scare me a little."

"And the second possibility?" Ronon asked.

"She really does hate her daughters and wants revenge. If everything she put me through and that I've seen was an act, then she deserves an Oscar because it was good. Good enough to give me doubts about both possibilities."

Ronon twitched his head back. "I can see why you're so upset."

"No, I'm upset because I couldn't shoot Morticia. Trying to figure out what she's up to is just really annoying." John let his head drop back – gently - against the tree. "And I don't want to do it. I don't want to figure out what she's up to. I just want to know, for once. No doubts, no funny little voices in my head whispering about what a selfish ass-hole I am. I..." He pulled in a breath of cool, moist air that tasted like water, and exhaled it slowly, letting everything boiling and raging inside him go with it. Only half of it went, the rest hunkered down in wait leaving him heavy and drained. He wanted to close his eyes, just for a minute, but knew that if he did he would see Anja's face drying up into old age.

"I want her gone, Ronon. I just want her gone so I can get back to living the life I had before she came along."

Ronon's hand went to his blaster. "That can still be arranged."

John rolled his head back and forth over the trunk. "No. Not if Earth really is about to be turned into a buffet."

Dirt, twigs and needles crunched under Ronon's booted feet when he shifted. "So what do we do?"

Sheppard gave him a helpless look. "Send a MALP?" He honestly had no idea what to do except to do exactly what Morticia wanted.

-----------------------------------------

Beckett wasn't a happy man part way into the post-Op check. Sheppard's blood pressure going from high to bordering on abnormally low nearly landed John a permanent bed in the infirmary. A nurse had been inflating the cuff so had witnessed the rapid change. John was a little shocked himself – more at actually being able to feel the energy drain out of him – but it at least explained why it was suddenly so chilly in the room.

Morticia's welcome back gift, as it were. That wraith witch was a bad influence on his health.

"Considering all the hell she'd put you through," Carson said, "I would have been a bit surprised if your body hadn't reacted in some way." But being a man who probably regarded warning labels as gospel, he played on the side of caution by sticking heart-monitor pads to John's chest under his shirt. It was just for a half hour, which forced the post-Op meeting to take place in the infirmary.

"Carson's paranoid," John said when Elizabeth, Caldwell, McKay and Teyla entered, all looking bemused. He was sitting on top of the neatly made blankets of a bed against a hill of pillows, one ankle cross over the other.

"How did it go?" Elizabeth asked.

John visibly shuddered with a sour smile. "I'm hooked to a heart monitor. What does that tell you?"

The awkward expression on Elizabeth's face had John quickly amending himself.

"Sorry," he said. "Being ordered not to kill her kind of put me in a bad mood. But depending on the truth behind the situation, it may or may not be a bad thing." He reiterated what Morticia had told him concerning her rather selfish daughter.

"She gave us a data chip with the same info," he said. Ronon fished the chip from his pocket and handed it to Rodney.

"Make sure to clear that chip first," Caldwell said.

To which Rodney replied with a small eye-roll, "Been there, done that. See you in ten minutes." Then he headed out of the infirmary.

"Do you know if she's telling the truth?" The colonel asked next.

John exchanged a look with Ronon. "I have no idea, sir. But we can't take the risk. We also need to be cautious, and I mean really cautious." He looked back at the Caldwell. "I say we start by getting as much intel on the planet as possible. Dial from another world, maybe send a MALP or UAV. Take it one small step at a time."

Caldwell nodded. "I agree. Do you have the address?"

John shook his head. "Let's just say the queen is holding it hostage. I'm also willing to bet she has more intel than what she told us but'll only hand it over step by step. This queen is smart. Smarter than most wraith. You think she's only one step ahead when in fact she's more like ten steps. And she knows me well enough to predict me, which is also probably in part why she wants _me _to go. Keep in mind it's all theory, but I wouldn't put it past her."

"We need to try and predict what she might do," said Ronon. "Create back-up plans for each scenario. She may know you, Sheppard, but you seem to know her just as much."

John grimaced. "That depends on if what I saw was really her."

-----------------------------------

The moment the monitor pads were removed and a clean bill of health given, John headed for the nearest balcony. Not to think, he refused to think, just for a few minutes. Fresh air and the distant whispering rush of the ocean was all he asked for: pretend Morticia wasn't on another world, alive, kicking and pulling his strings like a puppeteer.

John leaned on the railing, lifting his face into the cooler upper winds. It was the late afternoon heading toward twilight but noon-time heat was still thick. He still felt cold, tired, needing a good nap but afraid to close his eyes. Lost to him was the luxury of saying that his ordeal with Morticia was over and it pissed him off.

He'd needed that, to be able to say it, feel it and hold to it. It had been all that was standing between him and complete insomnia: waking up gasping and sweat-soaked to the mantra of "it's over, you're safe, it's over."

Morticia had yanked that from him. She was like his own personal devil.

Why couldn't he have shot her? Why couldn't he have been given at least that much? Why couldn't he be free of her? He still had to wonder if he was being punished.

John shook his head. He came out here to keep from thinking, which was usually the antithesis of why people retreated to the balconies. It was a place to think. If he wanted his brain to shut-up, he needed to be where the noise was, within crowds, the rec room, the mess. He needed to be with people, who he didn't want to be with at the extreme moment.

What he really needed was for his brain to shut off for two freakin' minutes.

The door rushed open behind him and he jumped.

"John?" Elizabeth. He didn't turn, didn't need to when she stepped up beside him to lean on the rail.

"I've been looking all over for you," she said. "But I can leave if you want."

John shook his head. "Doesn't matter."

She squinted thoughtfully at him. "You look tired."

"I could probably use a nap," he said. "But I don't want to."

Elizabeth widened her eyes. "She really shook you up, didn't she? Kate was a little worried about how her return might affect you."

Now he finally looked at her, rounding his own eyes over in alarm. "You talked to Kate about me?"

"She talked to me about you, actually," she replied, "about five minutes ago. Once she heard what was going on, her immediate concern was the stress it was having on you. And I don't blame her."

Neither did John. Coming back from a mission unharmed and still being hooked to a monitor – there wasn't anything right or normal about that. John could not say that he was fine. He was far from being fine. He would do what he had to but, to be honest, it scared him. Too many what-ifs. He was freakin' sick of what-ifs. He would kill for some certainty and didn't even have that luxury.

"I wish I could tell you that you didn't have to go," said Elizabeth with a gentle squeeze to his wrist.

"I wish there wasn't a reason to have to go," he dead-panned. "So maybe we want this to be a trap. If we can figure out that it is, then we don't have to go anywhere." Small comfort there since traps weren't meant to be that obvious. Anything Morticia had planned they wouldn't know about until it had already happened.

"Kind of grasping at straws there," Elizabeth said. "The other reason I came to find you was to tell you that Caldwell wants to start laying out some contingency plans in an hour. That gives you a little down time that I suggest you take. Eat and rest, even if all the resting you do is to sit."

John doubted he was capable of either right now.

----------------------------------

Sheppard managed to snag some solitary time in the mess while still able to grab some food. He suspected Beckett's influence behind the staff still having enough food that was warm. He'd heard that the menu featured lasagna, yet the plate handed to him was fried chicken. He took a seat at the farthest table away from where the two marines on KP were cleaning up.

"May I join you?"

John looked up at Teyla standing across from him holding a mug of tea. He nodded and she sat, taking a small sip. "Dr. McKay has finished checking the data chip for viruses and is now studying the information," she said.

John resumed picking the white meat from the chicken breast. "Good, 'cause it sucks to be fooled twice."

Teyla smiled around her mug. Then she frowned. "Did the queen do something to you?" she asked. "Is that why you did not look well when you returned?"

"Didn't know I was even looking bad," he replied. "No, she didn't do anything. Then she'd be dead and I'd be smiling a lot more." He looked up suddenly at Teyla. "Did you... while you were on the planet, I mean. Besides sensing the queen you didn't happen to, um, get a little peek inside her mind? Not on purpose or anything but maybe..." He grimaced "Sense something more? Saw something?"

Teyla's answer was a negative shake of her head. "No. I did not stay long. I did not wish her to lay hold of my mind."

John's shoulders bunched in a sheepish cringe. "Sorry. I'm not asking you to do that or anything. It's just that, with Morticia... if this is a trap then we need to know."

Teyla quirked an eyebrow. "And if it is not?"

John rubbed his face with one hand. "I don't know anything, Teyla. We have nothing to go on because everything's possible. I have nothing on the queen or anything to hold out on her with to get her to tell us the truth. I'm tired of it, Teyla. Not knowing. I'm so damn tired of it." He lowered his hand back to the table and realized that, once again, it was shaking. "Can I be brutally honest?"

Teyla nodded.

John turned his gaze away feeling the skin of his neck and face heat up. "She scares me." He was a little shocked and put-off by how easy that had been to confess. He didn't even know why he had felt the need to say it. Although, if it had to be said, then Teyla was the one to hear it. He knew she wouldn't take it as a reason to wonder and worry. It wasn't her to judge like that.

"With good reason," Teyla said. "She hurt you."

John shook his head rigidly. "She won't go away. Crap! It's like I'm dreaming and won't wake up. I need to know what to expect. Something, anything. I need... I need something. I spent enough time with her, I should have something but I don't." And it made him feel like he was holding out, on himself and everyone else.

Teyla took another sip of tea, wearing a pensive look. "Perhaps," she began, "perhaps this is more a matter of the heart than the mind." She set her mug down in order to fold her hands on the table top, and looked John in the face. "I have learned in a difficult way that assumptions cloud our minds to what is before us. As complicated as humans and wraith have the potential to be, the only thing we can be is ourselves. There can be no doubt that this queen is being dishonest to some degree, for some purpose whether big or small. She is wraith. You are at least able to trust her to be a wraith, think like a wraith."

John nodded. "Which means she is up to something. And it isn't just about revenge. She also had the same information about Earth stolen from her daughter. If she took it then she knew Atlantis was still around..." He widened his eyes as his thoughts fell into synchronous order. "Knew the city's demise was a bunch of crap..." he trailed off when the pieces started falling faster.

However, what it all came down to was that everything Morticia and the wraith needed to capture Atlantis to get to earth via gate had been on that chip. And it wouldn't just be what was downloaded, but probably anything that the queen and Michael had observed for themselves: numbers, weapons, Atlantis capability to cloaked. The wraith already knew to keep blasting to deplete their shields, knew to get Atlantis to waste drones by sending in Kamikaze pilots. The only reason to come up with a plan to get a small contingent of humans off world was to capture them to use as hostages.

But Morticia would know it wouldn't work, not fast enough at any rate. Bombarding the shields would get them into Atlantis faster.

John tilted his head to one side. "This isn't a trap."

"Are you sure?" Teyla said, looking nervous.

Sheppard shook his head falteringly. "I don't... not really. She might be trying to find an easier way in to Atlantis through us... she wasn't like the other queens, Teyla. Crap, she actually acted like she hated being a wraith. So, yeah, I'll admit there's a part of me that believe she's telling the truth. She didn't do a damn thing by the wraith handbook and without batting an eye for it. So if it really wasn't an act, then this really is about revenge. She had what she needed to come after us, and we know wraith aren't patient when they finally get what they want."

None of it was a foregone conclusion to give into, of course. It was, however, something a hell of a lot more concrete, something that could be used to make the situation slightly more predictable.

John checked his watch. Twenty minutes until the meeting, just enough time to grab a quick shower and organize what he needed to say.

"Thanks Teyla," he said, then bolted from his seat, dumping his tray into the bin along the way and leaving a confused Teyla in his wake.

TBC...


	29. Into the Lion's Den

Ch. 28

Into the Lion's Den

They weren't going to take chances. Everything they needed for planning the mission they brought to the alpha site, including a MALP. Lights, chairs, and a table were set up in one of the larger temple rooms near the entrance. Since everything they had wanted to know about the wraith but were afraid to ask had been wiped out with the wraith virus, they had to rely on a crude sketch of a hive ship from Ki-vana. She explained what she drew to everyone gathered tightly around the table.

Her eyes, however, always went straight to John.

"There are key points where you need to plant your charges," she said, pointing those places out on the diagram. "The engines will be heavily guarded during the refitting, but you'll only need to set two charges outside the room. The _Kavass_ gel," she looked at Sheppard before continuing, "the liquid of life that keeps a wraith well while hibernating, is volatile. Concentrating your charges here, in the control center, and the storage chamber will create a strong enough explosion to destroy the ship.

John met her gaze. "Will the alcoves be occupied?"

Ki'vana shook her head. "Food is too precious to risk. During repairs food..."

"_People_," John snarled.

Ki'vana acted like she hadn't heard, "…is stored elsewhere."

Sheppard glared. "But you're not going to tell us where."

"No," was Ki'vana's abrupt reply. "The ship will be guarded at its entrances. However, the docking bay will be unattended. Your Lantean ship will be able to remain there undetected."

"What about planet sensors?" Caldwell asked. "Sentries at the gate?"

The gate was planet-side according to Ki'vana, located in an open valley that would allow their puddle jumper to get through.

Ki'vana's eyes went hooded in long-suffering annoyance as though Caldwell were the biggest idiot on the planet. "They are wraith," she said in a dead-pan tone that said it all.

"Until we came along," John translated, "the wraith didn't need to worry about anyone invading their pit stops."

"They still believe that," said Ki'vana.

John narrowed his eyes. "They probably hope for an invasion. All that food charging straight toward them?"

Ki'vana smiled languidly.

"We're still not going in without more intel," Caldwell said, cutting into the moment. "I want that MALP through the gate, _now_."

It took thirty minutes to prep and send the MALP through to the planet. McKay was in charge of the laptop that would receive telemetry and Zelenka was in charge of steering the thing. Everyone present gathered in a half-circle around the gate like a farewell crowd watching as the MALP trundled through it.

"Receiving MALP telemetry," McKay announced. Sheppard craned his neck to peer over one shoulder and Caldwell the other at a rather barren landscape of dry brown grass and loose stones. The MALP bounced and jostled over a rough path going fairly straight.

"Not too far," Rodney said. "We only get so many of these things."

The MALP didn't have to go far when it came to the crest of a hill right before the gentle slope leading into a broad valley surrounded by serrated peaks and bald hills. Sheppard felt his jaw slowly drop. The telemetry might have been grainy but he knew a town when he saw one, and a hive ship parked behind it monolithic and omnipresent: an alien fortress.

"McKay," Caldwell said. "I think now's a good time to bring the MALP back before someone sees it."

The MALP was already moving, backing up to turn around and trundle more speedily away than it had come. Since it couldn't be retrieved until an incoming hole was established, Zelenka parked it on the other side of the ring. There was no real worry of it being found if what Ki'vana said was true. You don't give a planet populated by slaves the means to escape. Once on the planet, there was no getting off, which meant a useless DHD.

"Well," said McKay, "so far it looks just like how she told us."

"So far," John muttered. "Wait 'til we get there" which wouldn't be until tomorrow, 0800 Atlantis time.

With the plan in place, equipment was gathered and packed to head home for the night.

------------------------------------------

Sheppard had wanted to eat in solitude. His team allowed it, for about ten minutes, and then joined him without being asked since he also didn't protest it. They'd gotten the hang of his two-way moods to the point where it seemed they could practically sense the shift.

They ate out on a balcony furthest from civilization without having to cross into unexplored sections, enjoying the orange sunset and permitting the silence. Even Rodney, who looked to be getting uncomfortable by it at every passing minute, managed to restrain himself from saying anything.

There wasn't anything to say that wouldn't end in an argument, and nothing would be resolved. Sheppard didn't want his team to go. His team both wanted and needed to go. Teyla's ability to sense wraith (and wraith numbers), Ronon's skills in, well, everything that constitutes fighting, and Rodney knowing how to upload the virus he created the fastest way possible made it mandatory.

In return, Sheppard's team didn't want him to go, except he was the team leader, Morticia wanted him to go, and he knew hive ships just as well as Ki'vana.

It was just a no-win situation.

That left a much larger elephant sitting in the middle of the table that Sheppard knew without question his team was fighting to ignore.

Could he handle it? Would he be all right? Heightmeyer had been the only one to voice it: too soon. This was too soon for him. And maybe it was, Sheppard couldn't really say. He wouldn't let himself go mental on a mission; that was fact and resolve. But should they survive it, what he was like after...

Again, it depended on if they survived... and whether they let him kill Morticia when it was all said and done.

------------------------------------------

Trying to sleep was a joke. Sheppard had figured as much before heading to bed and yet he still tried. The dreams he managed to have were invaded by Morticia, Ki'vana, and wandering lost in the organic corridors of a hive ship.

_You're still mine, little one._

He needed to shoot the witch. One shot and that's it, the moment they returned from the mission still alive. Just in case, though, he would leave a note. The last will and testament of John Sheppard: Kill that wraith bitch dead. No one would dare argue the last wishes of a dead man.

Sheppard awoke to an intimately familiar gasp and sweat-drenched body. The clock said he still had another hour to try.

Bull, it was a complete failure, which made him the first one geared up, ready to go, and already prepping the jumper for flight.

The infiltration team arrived on the hour – John's team plus Lorne, Lt. Stafford and Lt. Adams. The more the merrier didn't apply to this mission. Ordinance and packs of C-4 were loaded into the jumper, enough to create a pretty impressive light show even without the catalysts in the hive.

With the jumper loaded, the go-ahead was given to move out.

"Good luck," Weir said, then added a husky but resolute, "And come back safe."

The jumper lowered into the gate room before a ready and waiting wormhole. John eased the jumper through to the alpha site where Lorne and Stafford trotted off to fetch Ki'vana. Teyla and Rodney moved to the back to get a crash course in how to ready C-4 in case it came to it. Ronon was about to join them.

"Ronon," John said just as the runner rose from the co-pilot seat.

Dex dropped back into it. "Yeah?"

Sheppard kept his eyes on the console, going through unnecessary systems checks already gone over three times.

"Don't let me go back," he said, voice low. "Whatever happens, don't let me be taken again." He peered over his shoulder to see Lorne, Stafford and Ki'vana just now stepping out of the woods. "Don't let the queen get her way."

Ronon pulled his blaster from its holster and switched settings. "I won't."

Once the three were aboard, Ki'vana tucked securely between Stafford and Lorne (not that it would make a difference if Ki'vana felt inclined to be difficult), the bay door hummed shut and they were on their way. They emerged from the event horizon and cloaked, swinging around to deal with the MALP that was still where Zelenka had parked it. There may have been a risk in redialing for Rodney to steer the MALP back through the 'gate, but the last thing they needed was for the curious to stumble on their little robot and raise the alarm, and three 'gate activations was bound to have drawn someone's attention by now.

Once the MALP was back at the Alpha Site, Sheppard lifted off, swinging around rising high over the barren field. He saw the valley and the town like a dark blemish on the pale gray and gray-brown surface. And on the other side was a fractured fairy-tale's nightmare castle, all of it clearer, more real, and a hell of a lot more imposing in size.

The town itself was more like a city, roughly larger than Atlantis and made up of a cluster of rickety houses in the center and more elaborate mansions on the outside, with plenty of room to expand. Smoke coiled thick and oily from chimneys and what John was sure were textile plants. He could almost smell the raw, metallic stench of boiling fat.

Sheppard took a wide turn toward the hive ship, skimming in close to its skin-like surface until coming up on the bay entrances. He pulled the jumper toward an upper-level entrance since he recalled the higher levels always being the ones that mattered. The stabbing brightness of afternoon faded into smoky blue dusk as they entered the hive. Darts were docked dormant like sleeping insects, which was a really bad analogy of all the analogies Sheppard could have come up with. He passed over and under walkways until coming to one wide enough to handle the jumper's width. He wasn't chancing setting down on an empty docking platform.

The jumper touched down and the rear door hummed open. Sheppard kept the jumper cloaked and moved from his seat, slinging a pack of ordinance onto his shoulder. "We have until sunset, people. Let's make this fast so we can get the hell out of here," he said. Evening was when the wraith returned to spend the night in their sleeping baths according to Ki'vana.

Sheppard led the way off of the jumper. So far so good until he set foot on the walkway. Cool, clammy air hit his skin bringing with it a sharp scent that he never could describe, tainted underneath by rot, unwashed bodies, and blood. Or maybe that was just his memory filling in the blanks. He looked at Ki'vana standing next to him and tensed.

Ki'vana did not return his look. "Fond memories?"

John lifted his P-90 and said nothing.

Every cell in his brain started screaming trap. It made for some dark irony that he would have preferred ducking into adjacent halls at the approaching clomp of wraith footfalls. Actually, it would have made him feel a whole lot better. Waltzing out into the open like this was just too wrong, too damn easy, and it was making him nervous.

Or maybe that was just him being in a hive ship again.

Ki'vana led the way to the control room, Sheppard watching every step and every twitch of her finger like a cornered wolf. They entered the empty control center that was in twilight with most of its systems shut down.

Way too damn easy.

P-90 lights danced over slick consoles before settling on the spot where Rodney crouched, connecting and readying his laptop to deliver some sweet poetic justice. What goes around really does come around.

"Let's see how they like having their systems wiped clean," Rodney mumbled with vindictive glee. His hatred toward the wraith had been sealed after completing two weeks of rebooting and retrieving lost files.

"Just make it fast, Rodney," John said, "and haul ass back to the jumper the moment you're done."

Rodney replied by giving him a thumbs up. John, Lt. Adams, and Ronon with Ki'vana headed out of the room with Lorne wishing them good luck. John would have preferred having a fourth man keeping an eye on Ki'vana, but didn't trust the queen not make an early appearance and try to use Teyla's talent against her.

They hurried down empty corridor after empty corridor barely lit by sub-power. Every minute they didn't encounter a wraith heaped itself onto Sheppard's ever-growing paranoia. They entered the hibernation chamber with its pods of gelatinous liquids. Ronon stayed with Ki'vana as Sheppard and Adams spread out sticking C-4 beneath the rims of four pods, burying radio-transmitted triggers into the pliable putty.

John wasn't going to give into 'so far, so good.'

--------------------------------------

Teyla twisted her body, leaning far enough out to poke her head through the control-room doors and check the still-empty corridors.

"Teyla?"

She glanced over her shoulder at Lorne. "The wraith may not be inside, but they are close," she said. She returned her gaze to the corridors. "Too close."

She could feel their presence, their numbers, pushing down on her and against her like deep water. The queen had the loudest ambiance, full of excitement over what would soon be hers, anxiety to leave, and fear – fear of getting caught. The other queens would not be happy if they knew of what she had. They would feed off of her in their fury.

But the queen was in no mood to share. She would fight to the death to keep what she had found.

So very unwraith-like, all this covetousness, this possible sacrifice for the self. But, then, what did Teyla really know about the wraith? She shuddered, forcing herself to maintain that small connection.

---------------------------------------

John stepped one foot into the storage chamber and shivered. Cold ripped down his spine into his blood, nerves, limbs and heart. His muscles stiffened. Ghost-echoes of wailing bounced it his skull vibrating the bone. The place reeked of unclean bodies and the sour tang that wafted strong from the alcoves. He'd never really noticed the smell until now, with its undercurrent of urine and vomit.

Hell's ice-box.

"Sheppard?"

John looked at Ronon. Ronon stared back. It hit John, then, that he probably wasn't the only one having unpleasant flashbacks. He could see it in the Satedan's eyes behind the steeled resolve – a spark of fear.

Hell yeah Ronon got it.

John allowed himself a little shiver before pushing it all back and giving Ronon a reassuring nod.

_I'm good._

For now, but better than nothing.

Again Ronon stayed with Ki'vana as Sheppard and Adams pressed putty into four alcoves spread equidistant from each other while far enough apart to get a good chain reaction. John activated his com after sticking the last of his C-4 to the final alcove.

"McKay? Sheppard. Tell me you're done."

The com crackled. "Does almost done count?"

Sheppard headed back to Ronon and Ki'vana waiting by the entrance. "No. Be done by the time we get back."

"Any other time I would say you're pushing it, Colonel. But I think it's actually possible to manage that time frame."

"Good to hear it." John signaled to Ronon and Adams trotting to catch up to head out. Sheppard kept Ki'vana between himself and the runner.

"Efficient," Ki'vana said. "I'd expected it to take longer."

"Disappointed it didn't?" Sheppard said. They moved fast down the hall, past wide-open corridors and empty cells that made memories dance and John's heart thrash.

"Not at all," Ki'vana replied with a serene smile on her lips. "In fact, it's better than I'd hoped."

The worshiper flung herself sideways slamming John into a left-hand corridor just as they came to it. In a flurry of simultaneous moves, she brought John to the floor, kicked her foot into the control panel slamming a solid barrier between him and his team, and grabbed his nine-mil firing at another, smaller panel in the wall. Alarms like the howl of a dying mechanical animal shrieked all around them.

"What the hell did you do?!" John snarled.

Ki'vana pressed the business end of the gun into the soft skin under his jaw. "My master's command."

-------------------------------------

Alarms blared. Teyla's entire body jolted at the shift of emotions from the queen – anxious to panicked to angry in a single moment. The rush of wraith consciousness nearly overwhelmed her, sending her heart scurrying into her throat.

"What the hell!" McKay cried over the wail of the sirens. "What happened, what's going on?"

Teyla had to force herself to move away from the door. "Dr. McKay, if you are not finished then now would be a good time to stop talking and finish."

Rodney, gaping, nodded stiffly and continued. Nervous fingers flew as rapid as fluttering wings over the key-pad. "The virus is uploading. Two minutes."

"Rod-neeeey," Teyla gritted, voice strained as she fought against the onrush of wraith drawing nearer. "We do not have two minutes."

"We don't have a choice, either!" Rodney snapped. "Two minutes. Just two damn minutes!"

-------------------------------------

Ronon didn't hesitate blasting the outer control panel. With the mechanism out of the way, he pressed his weight into the door, pushing sideways enough to create a wide enough wedge to slip his fingers through.

"Sheppard!" he called. "Sheppard can you hear me!" For all his caution, his unwavering vigil, Ki'vana's actions had been so sudden, so fast, he hadn't had time to so much as realize what was happening until it had happened. Now they were separated, Sheppard locked on the other side, which was _exactly_ what the man had been afraid of happening.

Ronon had failed in his promise.

"Sheppard, answer me!"

Adams joined him in pulling the door apart but the damn thing refused to open any more than another inch.

"This isn't working," Adams grunted.

"Then we need to find another way," Ronon grunted back. He pushed away from the wall into a charge through the hall, Adams barely keeping up behind.

-----------------------------------------

John wanted to answer Ronon's call. The gun at his throat, however, wouldn't let him.

"Guess this is where you gloat," he rasped, "about how I should have just shot your queen. Why all the pretense? Why not just hand us over? Or is it just that much fun messing with our little minds."

Ki'vana coolly smirked. "My queen did not deceive you. She simply did not tell you everything. She knows she is to die the moment this mission is complete. Her final wish is for you to join her that no queen may ever have you." She pressed the gun harder, choking him. "You are hers. Always have been. Always will be."

John coughed. "Thought as much. Then this is the part where I tell you like hell I will be."

Ki'vana angled the gun so that the bullet would rip through his jaw and out his skull. She pulled the trigger. The gun clicked empty.

John grinned. "Sucker." He grabbed her wrist twisting as he threw his body flipping them both into a roll landing Sheppard on top. "Your queen's gotten predictable." He slugged her hard across the face. As predicted, she rolled with the punch allowing her to recover fast enough to bring her knee up to where it would count, only for Sheppard to push away from her before she had a chance to connect.

It created the distraction Ki'vana needed. She lunged upright into Sheppard, clawing for his P-90 still hooked to his vest. Just as Sheppard had guessed, she couldn't quite figure out how to work the clip, so yanked on it trying to tear it free. John grabbed the gun angling it toward Ki'vana, forcing her to shift efforts. Between the two of them the gun tore free, flying from both their grips to go skittering across the floor.

Ki'vana slammed her elbow into John's chest then scrambled over him toward the weapon. John didn't allow himself time to recover. He rolled onto his stomach grabbing Ki'vana by her booted ankle. She stumbled falling flat, but twisted swinging her other foot around right into Sheppard's face. John reared his head back missing the blow by a hair's breadth. It was enough for Ki'vana to stretch that final few inches enough to touch her fingertips to the gun's stalk, pulling it toward her.

John lurched forward on top of her grabbing the gun just as she swung it around. They grappled, rolling, pushing against the weapon to get it to point at the other. The gun went off spitting a steady stream of bullets that cut precariously close to Sheppard's face and neck. An iron hot force slammed into his shoulder and out his back in an explosion of heat, but he ignored it. Since neither one of them could get the gun, then neither one would have it. John inched his fingers to the switch that released the clip and pressed it.

The clip dropped free onto Ki'vana's chest. Sheppard grabbed it, tucking it into his vest while rolling away just as the trigger depressed a second time, spitting the bullets still in the chamber until clicking empty. John landed on all fours and staggered to his feet, grabbing his knife. Ki'vana rose more sinuously brandishing the P-90 like a club.

Sheppard smirked. "So, what do you think of me now?"

Ki'vana smirked caustically back.

Then the two charged one another.

TBC...

A/N: (Cackles with wicked glee.)


	30. A Paltry Thing

Ch. 29

A Paltry Thing

"Done!" Rodney announced, pulling connectors from the wraith console and stuffing everything back into his bag without wasting precious escape time shutting it all down. He would have smiled at the thought of a human-made virus devouring its speedy way through mountains of Wraith data, but right now he was too scared to care.

"Let's move, people!" Lorne called. He led the way from the control room, leaving behind a surprise gift in the form of C-4. "And that was more than two minutes, McKay."

"Two, four," Rodney replied with an indifferent flap of his hand. "We wanted the data gone and the data is now going. Time is irrelevant."

Lorne curled his lip. "Not with wraith on our ass." They turned a sharp corner and, low and behold, a pair of wraith drones met them half-way.

"Damn it!" the Major spat. They ducked fast back around the corner, exchanging pulses of blue-white stun juice with rapid-fire bullets. The wraith, confident in their immortality, pressed forward and convulsed before crumpling. Lorne didn't give them the chance to rejuvenate, ordering everyone out.

Only to meet three more drones blocking their way. The halls flashed and exploded with an almost concussive force of weapon's exchange. McKay's head ping-ponged between the fight and the two downed wraith still in sight behind them.

One of the drones bolted upright like a bad imitation of Frankenstein's monster. Rodney shrank back with shriveling insides. "Oh no. No, no, no, no, not good, not good! Son of a bitch we are _so_ screwed!" He fumbled with his nine-mil before finally firing. The recovering drone jerked once at an impact to its shoulder, which seemed to do nothing more than annoy it.

"Very, very screwed!" Rodney shouted above the constant blasts, still firing away. The second wraith stirred while the first struggled to its feet.

Only to go down when a hail of bullets slammed into its face. The second joined it, and Lt. Adams barreled around the corner to join the fight.

"Where's Ronon and Colonel Sheppard?" Lorne shouted.

"Separated. That worshiper attacked the Colonel and Ronon had to find another way to get to them. He said to head back to the jumper and hold it down. If they're not back in twenty we leave and blow the place!"

"Sheppard has been a very bad influence on Ronon!" Rodney barked. He wasn't a praying man, never had been, never wanted to be, but he was willing to lower himself to begging a higher power for the lives of his two team mates. They'd already lost Sheppard once. They couldn't, not again. They just couldn't.

Rodney didn't even want to think about losing two.

The last of the four drones finally went down and didn't get up. "Move!" Lorne shouted and they didn't need to be told twice.

_If they're not back in twenty, _Rodney thought, _to hell with what Ronon said. We're going after them. _He exchanged a look with Teyla that let him know she was thinking the same.

---------------------------------------

_We're not losing you again, Sheppard. _

Ronon didn't stop, didn't even slow when a drone materialized from around the bend. Dex lifted his gun and fired straight at the head, blowing the mask and most of the side of the thing's face into bone-shards and meat.

Ronon had no real idea of where he was going, only that he needed to circle around and find a back entrance to the hall Ki'vana had shoved Sheppard into. If it hadn't been for the alarms, he might have been able to hear them.

A stun blast exploded over his shoulder. Ronon whipped around back peddling as he fired, knocking the wraith flat on its back with a hit to the chest. Ronon turned around and fired again at a second wraith coming from the front.

They weren't taking him. They weren't taking Sheppard. They weren't taking anyone. Today, the wraith were going to lose, one way or another. Ronon would see them to the Underworld himself if he had to.

----------------------------------------

Ki'vana was good. She spun around avoiding Sheppard's slashing knife and used the momentum to slam the gun into his upper back. P-90s were light, but durable, with sharp corners, one of which connected with his spine. John staggered forward barely keeping to his feet, arching against the pain. He spun around twirling the knife like a bantos stick.

Ki'vana adjusted her hold on the weapon and again they charged. She swung the gun. John swayed back avoiding the blow then slashed out slicing Ki'vana across the arm. With a snarl of pain she swung again connecting with Sheppard's wounded arm. He staggered sideways, crying out, and slashed at her body, cutting Ki'vana across the ribs.

Barely fazed, Ki'vana whipped the gun around into John's face, then into his stomach doubling him over. He lurched drunkenly to the side. Ki'vana took the opening, bashing the gun into his upper back, dropping him to the floor. John managed to hold onto the knife tucking it under his body to keep Ki'vana from kicking it out of his hands. So she kicked him instead, again and again in the ribs, shoulder and hip trying to flip him over.

The woman could score endless field-goals with her kicks. John felt them even through the thick vest. The blows drove the air from his lungs and kept it out. She then shifted the blow straight to his face, once, then twice, the second time a charm flipping him onto his back to kick the knife from his hand. Blinding-white stars flashed in John's vision. He rolled his head to the side spitting metallic blood pooling thick in his mouth.

"She didn't want your friends dead," Ki'vana said.

John was barely aware of her straddling his chest, not until the felt the cool edge of the P-90 pressing against his throat.

"Someone has to blow the hive," she said, pressing, closing off his air way. Through the sparks and growing haze, John could see his knife inches away from his hand. "Someone has to inform my queen that you are dead."

Sheppard's fingers squirmed, his arm stretching beyond its intended length – his wounded arm. Between the pain and the increasing lack of air, it was a miracle he could still move.

"This is my final gift to my queen," Ki'vana prattled, increasing pressure on his throat, his chest. "I would say you should feel honored, but I see no point. You do not deserve her honor. She does not deserve what she has been reduced to. This... this is all I have left to give her."

John's fingertips touch the hilt. He inched the knife toward him, closer and closer as the haze morphed into darkness. He pulled it beneath his palm, gripped it, poured every molecule of waning strength into his arm and swung it up and around, driving the blade into Ki'vana's side up to the hilt.

Ki'vana gasped. The pressure on John's throat relented enough for him to suck in a ragged lungful that tore into his throat driving a spike of pain through his chest. He coughed, sucking in another lungful.

"Cry me a river," he rasped, and twisted his body throwing Ki'vana off to writhe on the floor, clawing at the knife buried too deep in her flank for her to pull free.

Sheppard did it for her so the blood could pour freely. He rolled painfully to his hands and knees, pushed himself to his knees, and then struggled to his feet. Pain pulsed throughout his body to the tune of his heart. He staggered forward clutching his bleeding shoulder.

"I'll... tell you're queen," he croaked, "you said bye. I'll be sending my love to her... soon as I get back."

If he got back, but it was the thought that counted.

John may have been out of it for most of his duration on Morticia's hive ship, but he still retained a vague sense of where he was and where he needed to go. He lurched and staggered, drifting to the right then the left until giving in to letting the slick walls support him. Eternities came and went before he finally reached a juncture, taking the right corridor he could only hope led him to where he needed to go.

Blood slid down his arm, soaking into the cuff of his jacket with enough squeezing through to drip from his fingers. More blood snaked from his mouth down his chin and throat, soaking into his collar and pooling in the hollow of his collarbone (at least, that's what it felt like). Blood from a cut above his face rolled down to drip from his jaw. He was raining blood, probably leaving a trail of it for the wraith to follow. His only hope was to either find the others or bleed out before he became another pet to a new queen.

John tightened his grip on his knife. No. He would slit his own neck before he let that happen. Bury the knife in his heart, a lung, cut the femoral artery... if he could remember where, exactly, the femoral artery was. He'd just stick with his neck, much faster.

Damn, but he was out of it. He wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep.

No, he wanted to live. He wanted to drag his bleeding body off this nightmare and be rid of it. Free of it. He wanted to rest in the safety of home and his own bed without dreams and doubts. He wanted his mind to go quiet. He wanted _certainties_.

He just wanted to _live_.

"I want... to go home," he breathed and then wheezed a weak laugh. It may have sounded pathetic, but it was all he wanted. It wasn't so much to ask for.

Maybe it was. A wraith drone turned into John's hall coming straight toward him, a ghost surrounded in a halo of corpse-pale light created by lingering haze.

John took a step back, lifting his knife. _I just want to go home._ And he would. He would, damn it, he would! They weren't taking him again, never again.

The wraith lifted his stunner. It was now or never. John tensed his aching, quivering muscles in preparation to charge.

A flash of red exploded behind the drone, toppling it forward to sprawl lifeless on the floor. On the other side stood Ronon twirling his blaster because all those cowboy movies they'd exposed him to had made it look so cool.

John blinked in surprise. "Hey Ronon."

Ronon lifted his chin in greeting. "Hey. Ki'vana dead?"

Sheppard looked at the bloody knife, then back at Ronon. "Yeah. Yeah, she's dead."

"Good." Ronon moved forward taking John by his good arm and draping it across his broad shoulders. With Ronon's support, John was able to move faster down the halls. Not so much move, actually, as be dragged. Pain and blood-loss were wiping him out too fast.

Drones popped out from around corners and neighboring halls like a video game. Most Ronon blasted and the rest he ducked out of the way to avoid since playtime was over. He weaved barely missing stunner blasts. One blast hit john in his wounded arm, killing the pain, and he chuckled at being able to appreciate it.

"Almost there, Sheppard," Ronon assured. An influx of wraith forced him to take the long way. Almost off the path that John had to redirect him on in a slur of words. They ducked stunners, bolted for cover into neighboring halls, and left a mess of dead in the dust. Blood and electric pulses hummed in John's ears, blue-white flashes blinding him, Ronon's shouts of defiance an echoing base roar. Time slowed, everything muffled noise and methodical motions when they should have been fast and wild. Wraith flowed like a flood; when one fell, two more replaced it. So many wraith. So many damn wraith. Enough to drown them all, to drain them over and over and over...

John readied his knife. Not again. Never again.

Then they were there, breaking into a gimping run onto the walkway where the jumper was parked. A floating arm was waving at them. Sheppard knew he was pretty out of it but this was kind of pushing it. Then, suddenly, they were out of the bay and inside a rather crowded jumper.

"Close the door!" Ronon bellowed just as a stun blast exploded above them.

The door hummed closed. Ronon deposited John gently on the bench to begin removing his vest and jacket. The jumper powered up, lifting off, John could feel the surge like a wash of warm water flowing over him. He angled his head enough to see Lorne in the pilot's seat. Good, the man knew how to fly.

The sound of ripping material pulled John's attention back to himself and Ronon getting to the wound. The Satedan had ripped the shoulder of his shirt and was now pressing two field bandages against the entrance and exit holes. Sheppard didn't feel a thing thanks to the stun hit. He grinned. Now wouldn't that just piss the wraith off knowing they'd helped.

"Son of a..." Lorne snapped. John returned his attention to the cockpit brightened by the natural light of outside. He could see, through the cockpit window, wraith darts zipping past them making toward the gate to circle like buzzards. John knew this tactic: wait until a wormhole is established then start blasting away until something blows up…

_Blows up._

"We need to draw them away from the gate," Lorne said. "I'll have to uncloak..."

"Major, wait!" John called. He dug through the pocket of his vest lying next to him until pulling out the remote detonator. He tossed it to McKay. "Light 'er up, McKay."

Rodney attached the detonator by wires to the jumper in order to boost the signal, and pressed the button.

They could hear muffled pops followed by a muffled boom like near-by thunder as the view-screen lit up with orange and white light. Lorne had already dialed while Rodney had prepped the detonator. His IDC was sent through along with orders for a med team. The major let a few drones loose to add to the chaos distracting the darts, obliterating the three nearest the gate.

Lorne stepped on the proverbial gas with just a thought. The jumper shot through just as the remaining darts started to come around. Then Lorne hit the proverbial breaks once on the other side back in Atlantis.

John smiled tiredly at the sight of home filling the view screen.

Home, he was home.

"Nice flying, Major," John wheezed.

Lorne wiped his rather pale brow. "Thanks, sir."

With a content sigh, John allowed himself to slip into unconsciousness with a happy feeling of deja vu.

---------------------------------------

Beeping. Sheppard awoke to beeping, steady as his heart... keeping exact time with his heart, actually. The curiosity it provoked was enough to get him to open his eyes. He knew that sound...

All of it rushed back, fast and wild – Morticia, Ki'vana, a hive ship, a plan. Ki'vana had attacked John, tried to kill him for the sake of her precious queen as a parting gift. He'd been shot and beaten and... and...

Saved. At the last minute too. And he thought for sure he was going to wake up dead for certain this time.

John pried his sticky eyelids apart to a blurry world of misshapen forms and colors. A few blinks and the blur solidified into objects he knew – heart monitor, bed rail, privacy curtains. Infirmary. Home. Once upon a time he thought he'd never see home again. When that turned out to be a lie, he'd wept with joy unabashed. That same desire expanded in him now, encompassing more than just home.

He was alive.

He was... No, he wasn't free. Morticia was still alive, still around. Until that changed he couldn't have any sort of claim to freedom.

"Colonel Sheppard?"

Carson filled his view looking less concerned and more pleased, even smiling a little. "You with us this time?"

John took a deep breath, wincing at a prick of pain in his side. "Why... wouldn't I be?"

Beckett promptly brought a cup with a straw to his lips. "What do you remember?"

Sheppard swallowed a few sips before talking. "Hive. C-4. Ki'vana kicking my ass. But she didn't kill me."

"She came pretty close," said Carson, setting the cup aside. "That bullet tore clean through your shoulder, nicked the joint and cracked your shoulder blade in passing. The booting you got to your ribs broke a few that caused a bit of internal bleeding. The two sources of blood loss almost drained you dry. We barely got to you in time. You've been in and out of it since; a mite feverish and delirious, so it's been hard knowing when you were awake and when you weren't."

That explained the heavy lethargy as though his bones were magnetized to the bed, as well as the dull ache climbing toward uncomfortable. Maybe it was time for a top off of his medication or Sheppard was making faces; either way Carson gave him an injection via I.V. that spread liquid numb through his blood dulling that pain.

"How's everyone else?" John asked, floaty yet still able to remain coherent.

"Well," Carson said. "You were the only injury." He pulled up a stool to sit, his hands clasped in his lap. "I've had to chase them off more than once. Physically you're going to be fine, and they know that..." he took a breath to say more, but didn't. He didn't have to.

John lifted a shaky hand to tap the side of his head. Carson nodded.

Sheppard smiled. "It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be."

Beckett cocked a skeptical eyebrow. "Really?"

"Really," John said.

"After everything that almost happened to you?"

John nodded. "I wasn't alone this time, doc." Which really had made all the difference. As much as he hated that his team had had to go, a small selfish part of him was glad they had been there. He gave Carson an uncertain, imploring look. "Not that I was happy they had to go through that..."

Beckett gave his arm a gentle pat. "It's all right, lad. They would have felt the same as you, and you would have done the same for them. It's okay to not want to be alone. We aren't meant to be."

Sheppard nodded. "What about the wraith queen? What's being done with her?"

Carson shrugged. "Nothing much. She's still at the alpha site under guard. She devoured that drone she had with her. Colonel Caldwell isn't quite sure what to do with her. She refuses to talk and it's not like she can leave. I guess you could say she's in a bit of a state of limbo right now."

John idly fingered the edge of his blanket. "Guess I'm really not free, then." But he didn't expound when Carson gave him a curious look.

--------------------------------------

Elizabeth had voiced against it, as did Carson. Even Caldwell had had his doubts. Kate had gone for neutral but ultimately said it was Sheppard's choice.

John made his way through the woods to the weathered ruins of the temple, shivering even with a vest and jacket on, his arm cradled in a sling. His clothes felt even roomier than before. His fever hadn't been much; the blood loss, however, had weakened him significantly to create some setbacks. He'd slept more than ate, with little energy and appetite to eat that much when he was awake. And there was still lingering fatigue, enough to have him panting prematurely on this short trek. But no way was he arriving in a wheel chair.

His team surrounded him, Ronon and Teyla flanking with Rodney pushing the chair and grumbling about it all the way.

By the time they reached the temple, Sheppard's shoulders were sagging and the skin at his hairline beaded with sweat. The two marines standing guard straightened at attention, snapping him a salute. He saluted back with an "at ease" then entered.

Lorne, who'd arrived earlier in another failed attempt to interrogate the prisoner, met Sheppard on the other side. "She hasn't said a word and she's looking a little hungry. Sure you want to do this, sir?"

John didn't say anything, just nodded. Straightening up as much as his sore body could, he entered the dusky room where the wraith queen prowled.

Morticia paced like a wounded, dying tiger on the other side, methodical and sagging like the old woman she was. She did not stop, but merely turn her head enough to regard John with flat, sunken eyes. She looked terrible, although John doubted he looked any better. Difference was he was healing while she was fading.

"Ki'vana's dead," he said.

Morticia curled her lip back from her teeth. "So I have been told."

"I'm alive."

She lifted her chin. "Obviously."

John watched her pace in a long moment of silence barely broken by the whisper of Morticia's gown over the dusty floor. Nothing wraith remained in her movements. She was all human, now – tired and weak and feeling the crushing weight of old age, of mortality; like having been in denial for too long.

The weight of the nine-mil tugged at Sheppard's thigh. _Put the thing out of her misery. You know you want to. Just do it! _

"I suppose," he finally said, "that this is the part where you think we're going to let you go in exchange for everything you've given us."

Morticia narrowed her eyes in overt annoyance.

"Or not," John said. "What is it you want?"

"I wanted you," she said.

John's fingers brushed the butt of the gun. "Didn't happen. What else?" He knew exactly what she wanted, all she had left to want, he just wanted to hear her say it.

Morticia turned away to glare at the floor. "There is nothing else to want..."

"Except?" John pressed.

She stopped, turning to face him, dull eyes suddenly sharpened by venomous loathing. "You know what I want. So cease toying and give it to me."

John mirrored her look hate for hate and forced through a tightened jaw, "_Say_ it."

Morticia hissed. John clenched his fists until they shook, anger and hate feeding off the shame and fear and guilt this wraith, this _thing,_ had buried him under until he thought he could never dig his way free. "Say it. I want to hear you say _it_."

"Kill me," she spat. "You, no one else. Kill me. I know you want to. Even now your hand longs to feel the weapon in its grip. Satisfy it. Kill me, little one. End it once and for all."

Now, he was free.

John forced his hands to unclench and relax by his sides. "No."

Morticia's shark-eyes widened and she hissed. John took a step back. "I deny you that."

The wraith queen bristled like a dog while advanced like a cat preparing to pounce. "Kill me. It is what you want what you long for."

John shook his head. "No, it's what you long for. What I long for I already have, and you can't take that away."

"Kill me," Morticia growled. "Or I will kill you."

Sheppard spread his arms out wide. "You can try."

And she did, swatting the lawn chairs aside like insects to lunge at him, her feeding hand stretched out heading straight toward his chest. There was a whine and a flash of red energy that threw the queen back hitting the wall where she crumpled to the floor.

John approached her and crouched. She lay in a broken, bleeding heap trailing black blood from her mouth down her chin. She stared up at him as he stared down at her. All the rage, hate, humiliation, fear and guilt coiled into a ball to sit heavy in the center of his chest. This creature had beaten him, broken him, and he wanted nothing more than to return the favor.

But it was enough to be able to deny her.

"I'm not yours," he said. "I never was."

Morticia's breaths turned liquid, blood bubbling from her throat to pour thick down her face allowing no room to speak. Her eyes widened perfectly round as they stared mortality in the face. Then her body convulsed – a small, helpless shudder – and stilled.

John stood. No need to check her pulse. This is what she had wanted, so it's what she got. He turned his back on her and walked from the room.

His team stood on the other side, Ronon leaning against the entrance with his blaster resting against his shoulder and a crooked grin on his face. "Bet she didn't see that coming," he said. Sheppard clasped him on the other shoulder in silent thanks.

Rodney stood across from the door with his mouth hanging open in stupefied shock.

"Wha... bu... wha..." he stammered. "She could have... She could have freakin' killed you! And you weren't going to do anything about it?"

John shrugged indifferently. "It's what she wanted me to do."

"So you let her almost kill you instead? Oh, yes, that's certainly sticking it to her..."

Ronon rolled his eyes. "McKay," he waggled his gun in the air. "Sheppard isn't an idiot. He knew what he was doing."

Rodney looked from Ronon to John. "You asked Conan to do it?"

Smiling, Sheppard moved over to the scientist and clapped him on both shoulders. "Glad to know that genius brain of yours is still functioning." He then turned to the exit and breathed, "Let's go home." Tired as he was, he would refuse the wheel chair just a little longer.

He felt a hand slide onto his shoulder. "John, are you all right?" Teyla asked.

John covered her hand with his, giving her a small, worn smile. "I think so."

"You think so?" Rodney said in a softer tone.

"I'm tired, McKay," John replied. "Too tired to think."

McKay let him leave it at that, and they headed home John used the chair halfway there.

TBC...

A/N: One more chapter to go, then it's over, and I will be sad.


	31. Epilogue: Once More With Feeling

A/N: We have reached the end (sniffles).

Ch. 30

Epilogue: Once More with Feeling

The jumper eased out of the 'gate into the world Carson had said was called Mysial, swiftly gliding over a green field abruptly giving way to emerald lush forest. The village was in a clearing on the other side at the foot of a small, ancient mountain. Carson had explained that, during a cull, the mountain provided refuge. It was why the Mysialens didn't suffer a severe population drop when the wraith popped in.

Sheppard circled the village with jumper's two and four flanking to let the villagers know they had arrived. People were already stepping out of their homes and a crowd was gathering by the time he landed. He hung back as the bay doors opened for the others to file out, lingering like someone of unimportance for the throng's attention to be glued on everyone else. He finally followed when they started moving toward the village.

His supposed anonymity didn't last long when three kids he almost didn't recognize barreled out from the masses to tackle his legs, the youngest clinging on for dear life with a squeal of delight.

"Mr. Sheppard, Mr. Sheppard, Mr. Sheppard!" Avi shrieked so high pitched Sheppard couldn't help a wince. It was almost like looking at a different little girl This one was dolled up in a white shirt and red-embroidered brown skirt and jacket with her hair combed and gathered in a neat little braid.

"You c-came b-back!" said Lavn, tugging on his arm. The boy was just as clean, also dressed in embroidered browns (green instead of red) with a polished black belt around his trousers and a little dirt smeared on his shirt. The shyly grinning Kilup could have been his twin except for the size and hair color.

Sheppard crouched and gathered all three kids to him in a single embrace.

Pain throbbed in his chest, guilt and shame getting the voice to hiss just how much he did not deserve this. Maybe it was right, maybe it wasn't He didn't care. It was what the kids wanted, what they needed.

John owed them an explanation, but not at the immediate moment. For now he let them have their happiness.

After the little group hug, the three tugged and herded him along to meet the woman taking care of them. She was a small, plump woman with a round face and strawberry blond hair twisted into a bun. She was quite beside herself that the man before her was the same that had been taken from the caves sick and starving.

"You filled out so well, Mr. Sheppard, if you don't mind my saying," she said with a light blush to her plump cheeks.

Sheppard actually appreciated it after all the berating followed by hollow assurances that he no longer resembled a scarecrow. Carson always saying he could stand to gain another pound or two didn't help. Outsider opinions always held much more weight, not having been tainted by familiarity.

After the meeting, while Carson and his med team checked on the other surviving slaves, McKay tried to search out energy readings, Teyla spoke with the leader and Ronon attempted to extricate himself from the fawning of doe-eyed, smitten young women, Sheppard was dragged and herded off once again. The kids introduced him to other kids, showed him their favorite place to play, the pond where they fished and the tree Levn and Kilup liked to climb.

Last, they showed him the graveyard.

"A l-lot of the adults have l-lost f-family," said Levn, "and the p-people here said it was okay f-for us to p-put up markers." They prodded him through the rows of grave markers made from polished gray flag stones with names chiseled into the surface.

John's stomach knotted, his heart pounding and palms slicking with sweat. They brought him to a marker of cream-brown stone striped with quartz and amber, with foreign letters bright white against the soft brown.

"The m-man who m-makes the name-rocks made th-this for our mom," said Levn. He crouched by the stone, tracing his thin fingers over the letters. "We k-kind of hoped sh-she would have been with the r-rest of the s-slaves. Sometimes people g-get separated. There were p-people who found each other after they th-thought they were dead. We thought it m-might be the same with our mom, b-but it wasn't."

Avi crouched on the other side setting the small bouquet of purple flowers she had picked on top.

"It was nice of him to make this," she said. She looked up at John. "Mr. Sheppard, are you all right? Your eyes are all red."

Sheppard quickly wiped away the moisture he hadn't realized had been forming and smiled. "Uh, yeah, I'm fine."

_Liar._

He moved forward, crouching next to Avi. He wanted to reach out and touch the letters like Levn, but the mere thought made the remorse expand until he couldn't breathe.

These kids had every right to know. He owed it to them. Crap, they had to know, even if they hated him for it afterwards.

John inhaled a quaking breath. "I... you guys... there's something you need to know... about what happened to your mom."

The kids looked up at him, innocent and trusting, making John wonder if guilt could kill because it was getting even harder to breathe. Moisture blurred his vision and, again, he was forced to wipe it away.

"It's... my fault." The words tumbled out like releasing a breath he'd been trying to hold. The muscles of his throat tightened turning his voice hoarse. "It's my fault she died. The wraith queen was mad at me. She hurt your mom because she knew it would hurt me."

The kids just stared at him and he wished more than anything that they wouldn't. Kick him, scream at him, hate him: he would have preferred it to their blank expressions.

"Why was she mad at you?" Avi asked.

John rubbed his throat to ease some of the tightness. How the hell was he going to explain this to them? He cleared his throat carefully. "Uh... one of the queen's humans... Um, she, uh... she wanted to do something that I didn't want to do. Something that, uh... that scared me, I guess you could say. I didn't want her to do it and it made her mad, which made the queen mad..."

"B-because you always must do what a f-follower asks," said Levn as though reciting a well-learned mantra.

John nodded. "Yeah. But what she wanted me to do I... I couldn't... I was, uh, being selfish. I didn't want to do what she wanted me to, so I was punished." He swallowed. "Your mom ended up paying the price. And I am so sorry for that. I didn't mean for it to happen I... I knew it might but, but I..." Then he shivered, the world blurring a third time. "I'm sorry. I tried to stop them, tried to take her place but they wouldn't let me. It's my fault she's gone and I am so sorry..."

Avi blinked large eyes at himThen she crawled into his lap to rest her head against his chest.

"The wraith d-do that a l-lot," said Levn, idly twisting a piece of grass in his hand. "It's how our dad died. One of the b-boy worshipers was m-mad at our mom, I don't know why. Then our d-dad was gone. Mom said it was all her f-fault, but I don't think it w-was."

"Wraith like to be mean," said Avi.

"Es-specially their f-followers," added Levn.

John wrapped his arms around Avi and squeezed in a gentle hug. "It's all right to be mad at me if you want."

Avi reached up, touching the side of his face. "I'm not mad at you."

John smiled and chuckled softly, letting the tears slide down his cheeks since rubbing them away wasn't doing squat. "You're not?"

Avi shook her head, as did Levn. "Y-you're a g-good person," he said. "You took c-care of us. N-no one else w-would have."

Kilup simply patted his hand.

John hugged Avi tighter. Out of the mouth of babes. She squirmed and giggled. "You're squishing me, Mr. Sheppard."

When he released her, she took his hand and together they headed back to the village.

------------------------------------------

"So," Rodney said as they headed out of the jumper into the bay. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" The masking tone of indifference was ruined by the spark of genuine curiosity and concern in McKay's eyes.

The removal of the sling supporting his damaged shoulder had been like the dropping of a white flag starting a race. Or, more appropriately, a countdown to an honest mission that didn't involve duress. John's first real mission (if one would call a day-long house call to check up on the Mysialens a mission) since his return home after Morticia had ditched him.

John had been neither here nor there about it. Everyone else had been walking on pins and needles. For them, it wasn't the mission but the destination: the place where he'd been left to die. For Sheppard, it had been the mission, his reaction, whether or not his eyes would be fore the skies only and whatever might pop out of them.

He hadn't looked up once. It was a personal victory he could pat himself on the back for while everyone else pretended not to be worried.

Sheppard grinned. "Not bad at all." It had been comfortable, actually, like a breath of fresh air. Some would call it a milestone he just called it finally getting back to where he belonged. In fact, thanks to the forced mission that had almost gotten him killed, and because he hadn't "cracked" under the pressure of it, the SGC had found no reason not to return to him his command.

Not just yet, though. Not until Heightmeyer okayed it, which was Kate's surreptitious way of hiding what she really meant - when _Sheppard_ okayed it. There had been a time when John would have jumped right back into command without a backwards glance or second thought. He felt capable of resuming command at any time and at times wanted to. But, frankly, he'd learned the hard way the necessity of taking it slow, and there was still plenty of readjusting to be done. Maybe you really can't go home again, go back to being who you used to be, but Sheppard owed it to the people who looked at him with nothing but trust to at least try. He wasn't perfect. No one was. He could, however, be better than he was right now.

He would earn that trust he saw.

John and his team followed Carson to the infirmary for a quick post-op check, unloaded their vests and weapons at the armory, then gathered outside the door.

"So," Rodney said, clapping his hand together for a vigorous rub. "Where's lunch to be today? The balcony…or the rec room if it's empty…?"

"How about the mess?" John said. It earned him three stares until Rodney shrugged.

"Where ever. I'm starved, let's go."

Walking into the mess felt not unlike walking into the lunch room at a new school. Whenever John had gone in to grab food and leave it had always been either at the earliest hour or late into the meal when the mess wasn't so crowded. They'd entered mid-meal when it was at its most crowded, conversations a single mass drone of sound that vibrated John's ears tickling sensitive nerves extending down his neck. He cleared his throat to get rid of it.

Today's lunch consisted of spaghetti in meat sauce or ham on rye. John grabbed a sandwich. Some adjustments were going to take longer than others and, for all he knew, may never be adjusted to.

They managed to score a table outside just as the group sitting there got up to leave. The drone was more of a gentle hum in the open, carried away by a cool upper wind.

"This, also, isn't so bad, don't you think?" Rodney said with more false nonchalance and poorly concealed tension. All three of his teammates seemed to be making busy work out of unwrapping eating utensils. Even Ronon, who usually just ripped the napkin off, took the time to remove the paper clasp and carefully unwind.

John forced himself to take in his surroundings, namely the people in it. People focused on their food, conversation, some occasionally glancing his way, a few with that gleam of hero-worship in their eyes, others with casual interest because looking at faces was a way of passing the time.

Sheppard averted his gaze beyond the rail to the glowing spires and bright azure sea glittering under the noon-day sun. It wasn't easy, being in crowds. But if he could step out of the safety of a jumper on another world and not bat an eye at it, he could get used to this. At least he wasn't stricken with the desire to pick up and bolt. He would definitely call that progress.

"No," John said, unwrapping his knife and fork, "no, it isn't so bad." Especially since they'd gotten the table that afforded the best view.

This was turning out to be a very good day.

The End

A/N: (Sobs) it's over! (Sobs some more). And thank you everyone who read, reviewed, offered encouragement and all around let me know that this story didn't suck. And extra special thanks to my beta, Drufan, who helped me make _sure_ it didn't suck. I said it before and I'll say it again – this was the toughest story I've ever written, so it does my heart good to know that it was thoroughly enjoyed.

Some of you made mention of research being done for this story. The truth is (cringes) I didn't do any research. At least, not technical research concerning PTSD. My focus was strictly on Sheppard, his reactions, limitations, passions, and how he might handle the aftermath of being tortured and broken (and what it would take to break him and put him back together again). Although doing research might have given me a little extra help, I didn't want technical definitions getting in the way of how I handled Sheppard's psyche. I know from personal experience that the technical definitions of various mental disorders and traumas don't apply to everyone one-hundred percent, and there's a bit of an unconscious habit to go _exactly_ by the definitions rather than let them act as a guide. So I avoided looking up things like PTSD, and focused strictly on Sheppard. So what started out as a desire to write a slave fic turned into one big character study. How I handled a traumatized Sheppard not everyone may agree with, but we all view a character in our own way, and Sheppard's psyche is tough to break.


End file.
